


Chuck Versus Das Boot (Chuck 6.07)

by anthropocene



Series: Chuck Season 6 [7]
Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Compliant, Corporate Espionage, Crime Fighting, Cruise Ships, F/M, Germany, Romance, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthropocene/pseuds/anthropocene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode 7 of "Chuck" Season 6: A seemingly routine job for C. I.—and a cryptic distress call from Jeffster!—send Chuck, Sarah, Morgan, and Alex to the Rhine River country of Germany! Please fasten your Lederhosen as our heroes take a riverboat cruise into a realm of dark castles, decadent rich people, curious QR codes, Pop Musik, and Liebfraumilch! And…the Wurst is yet to come!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a SOUNDTRACK for this episode (as in the actual series). Music cues are embedded in the text, and you can listen while you read! The soundtrack is available on 8tracks dot com; just search on the tag "anthropocene."
> 
> I appreciate hearing from my readers at any time...whether you liked the story or not, or have comments or questions. Even just a few words are always welcome. This is the only compensation a FF author ever gets. So please send me a comment via the box at the end of each chapter...and THANK YOU!
> 
> Disclaimer: This fan-fiction story should not be construed as a violation of copyright because I do not claim to own Chuck.

**_"Hi—I'm Chuck! Here are a few things you might need to know, or maybe just forgot…."_ **

_(Flashback to Chuck and Sarah at the doorstep of Ellie and Devon's Chicago home—as Sarah looks into Chuck's eyes and tells him, "I'm remembering…I wanted us out of the spy world…all of us…as soon as we're done with this Intersect business…." Chuck replies, "Deal, babe. Deal," and the two of them seal that deal with a fierce kiss….)_

_(Flashback to CIA Agent Juanita Saldana breaking into Ellie's office and examining one of the Keys that Chuck built…then liberating Manoosh Depark from imprisonment at Guantánamo Bay to work for her: "I require a skilled assistant for a very special project….")_

_(Flashback to Morgan and Alex viewing the mysterious DVD sent from Germany by_ Jeffster!... _Alex asks, "It's some kind of message for Chuck and Sarah, don't you think?" and Morgan replies, "More than that—it's a call for help!")_

_(Flashback to an excited Ellie breaking the news to a very nervous Chuck and Sarah: "Sarah, you're pregnant!")_

 

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

**In a state-of-the-art, secure research laboratory hidden in a facility near the campus of Stanford University**

_(Music: "The Right Thing [Kleerup Remix]," by Moby feat. Inyang Bassey)_

A freshly groomed Manoosh plunges into his work, backed by a righteous mix on a pair of Bose QuietComfort noise-cancelling headphones: a little gift from his new lady boss whose name he still does not know. He sits at a workstation, familiarizing himself with a complex series of circuit diagrams and 3-D renderings—the raw empirical designs for the Key pirated by Saldana herself. A fully equipped "fab lab" surrounds him in readiness: a facility in which any kind of device can be built, including a functioning copy of Stephen Bartowski's pivotal invention.

Manoosh opens, closes, and shuffles windows on his monitor screen, while typing on a digital notepad in sync with the dance music pulsing in his ears. He bounces energetically in his swivel chair and slaps the soles of his sneakers against the floor, unconcerned with the electronic tether strapped on just above his right ankle. And if he's aware that Agent Juanita Saldana and Professor Fleming are watching him on a surveillance monitor in an adjacent room, that isn't fazing him in the least either.

Saldana, standing alongside the Professor in his wheelchair, watches Manoosh work with unconcealed pride in her eyes. But Fleming's outlook is more cynical.

"Can he be trusted?" the Professor asks his former student. "He's an MIT man after all. You know I prefer to play with an all-Stanford bench."

She laughs softly. _"Sí_ …but at the present time Manoosh Depark is the best available athlete. And up to the task, I think."

"We shall see."

For a while, they continue to watch Manoosh at his labors. Then Fleming remembers another concern, and lifts his face inquisitively toward Saldana.

"I found it interesting—and worrisome, my dear Juanita," he notes, "that you were finally able to secure the schematics for the Key right about when I was making my case to the Bartowskis. I hope my trip to Chicago wasn't simply intended as a distraction."

" _¡Por supuesto que no_ —of _course_ it was not!" counters Saldana with mock indignation. "We both had valid orders. Perhaps the Agency was hedging its bets, but I am certain my superiors believed your arguments could win the day. Except that Sarah proved as intransigent as ever."

"Yes." Fleming sighs sadly. "And…I'm not supposed to know exactly _how_ you got the intel…am I?"

Saldana pats him gently on the shoulder. "No laws were broken, sir. That much I can say. And now…with the assistance of Mr. Depark, I will soon have Keys made here. And that will put _our_ team on the inside track to a fully reliable Human Intersect modality."

The Professor perks up. "That will help a great deal, Juanita, but in the meantime we're already making progress—surprisingly good progress, all things considered. Thanks to the data sets on Winterbottom and Shaw that you provided, we might even be a little farther along than the good Doctor Woodcomb is right now."

Saldana beams in approval—but Fleming shrugs.

"Of course," he continues, lifting his eyebrows, "we'd be even nearer to our goal if I'd been able to study even one of those two subjects _in vivo,_ rather than _in silico."_

"I know, Professor…I know. Such a pity Shaw is dead. As for Winterbottom, we have operatives assiduously searching the globe for him."

Fleming nods. "We also could have learned much from Chuck and Sarah Bartowski."

"They will see the light eventually," says Saldana. "Hopefully before they are struck down by the oncoming train."

 

* * *

**Thousands of miles away, on a jumbo jet midway through a red-eye transatlantic flight**

_(Music: "Mission Creep," by Cheatahs)_

_The sleek jumbo streaks through a moonless, clear night high above the Atlantic…._

Sarah makes her way up the compact spiral staircase leading from the sleepy first-class cabin to the lounge deck above. At a distance, she has the look of an elegant and experienced world traveler, in her dark taupe knit maxi-length dress, comfortable low-heel pumps, a single strand of cream-white pearls, and a black leather handbag. But a closer look reveals a pallor to her smooth skin and shakiness in her normally graceful motions. As she ascends the spiral stairs, Sarah is trying hard not to jiggle her innards.

The lounge deck is dimly lit, so that the full glory of the starry sky outside can seep in through the cabin windows. There are no customers at the semicircular bar in the middle of the lounge; just the bartender, who gives Sarah a little wave. She smiles wanly at him and continues past the bar to an aft seating area, where three plush leatherette chairs are set in a half-circle around a tiny table and facing a television screen mounted on the rear bulkhead wall. The TV is on but muted, and running a business news program from CNBC.

Sarah takes her iPhone out of her handbag. As she unlocks the screen and settles down in one of the leatherette chairs, her attention is briefly drawn to a particular news item that appears in the crawl at the bottom of the screen:

…TECH TRENDSETTER ROARK INSTRUMENTS DECLARES BANKRUPTCY—ALL ASSETS TO BE SOLD OFF…

" _Hmmm,"_ Sarah murmurs to herself, before quietly instructing her phone to "Call Mom at home." Waiting for the call to go through, she peers back over her shoulder. The bartender has his back to her, and is busy wiping down a set of highball glasses.

The face of her mother Emma appears on her screen.

_("Hello? Ohhh! Hi sweetheart!")_

Sarah holds the phone close so that she can speak out of the bartender's earshot.

"Hi, Mom. I thought it was still early enough back in California that I could call."

_("Of course it is. Any time is fine really. Molly's in bed though. How are you doing?")_

"Okay…now that I'm over the initial shock."

 _("It'd be a lie if I told you I'm not thrilled,"_ Emma joyfully replies.)

"That's what I figured."

 _("But how are_ you _doing…?")_

"Well…considering that I'd been telling Chuck over and over again that I didn't feel ready to be a mother yet…." Sarah rolls her eyes and takes a long breath.

 _("Well,"_ says Emma cautiously, _"that's certainly understandable, dear…it's only been a few months since your accident—")_

"But I guess we got a little careless," Sarah interrupts, "and now it's happened—and maybe you're going to be shocked, Mom—but I'm _happy_ …and so excited! For the first time since I…since my accident, I feel…well, just _normal_ again! Can you believe it?"

_("Of course I can, Sarah—it's you! You're going to be a loving, caring mother—and Chuck will be a terrific father. I'll bet he's all excited too…isn't he?")_

"Oh, he is, for sure…though when Ellie first told us, he freaked out more than I did!" Sarah giggles and shakes her head at the recollection. "But you know he's really happy too…and he's taking very good care of me, whenever I let him."

 _("That's so wonderful,"_ says Emma. _"So you aren't just calling me for reassurance then.")_

"No…but I _do_ have an important—and kind of personal—question for you."

Sarah's expression abruptly turns sheepish—and Emma breaks into a knowing grin.

_("It's either about having sex during pregnancy, or morning sickness…isn't it?")_

" _Mother!"_ Sarah blurts out, startling the bartender. She blushes and lowers her voice back down to a whisper. "No—no issues with sex. It's the morning sickness. Not just morning! Afternoon…evening…midnight…I'm just feeling _bleah_ all the time."

_("I thought you looked a little out of sorts, dear. And I still remember having it pretty bad too, back when I was carrying you.")_

"What goes around," Sarah ruefully notes. "So what works for it?"

_("Ginger. Ginger ale, ginger tea, ginger snaps—anything with ginger in it will help tremendously.")_

Sarah glances toward the bar and smiles. "Talk about your perfect timing."

She and Emma continue their teleconversation for a few more minutes, then part fondly. Sarah slings her handbag over her shoulder, eases to her feet, and goes to the bar. The bartender awaits her with a friendly smile, glad to have a customer at this wee hour. He's greying, perhaps somewhere in his early sixties, and has kindly eyes.

"What would you like, young lady?"

"Double ginger ale, please. Light on the ice."

"You got it!" He tosses a half-scoop of ice cubes into a tall glass, reaches for his soda gun, and meticulously fills Sarah's glass to within a few millimeters of the brim with the bubbly, light-amber beverage. He sets it down on a cocktail napkin in front of her.

Sarah takes a big gulp of the ginger ale and sighs gratefully, feeling some relief even as it goes down. She sets her iPhone on the bar and opens a tourist website: NEW!—RIVERBOAT GAMING CRUISES ON THE RHINE! She quickly becomes absorbed in studying the text and images.

The bartender abruptly looks up and past her, toward the stairs. Someone else has come up to the lounge deck. Without turning around, Sarah smiles, having made Chuck by the barely audible rhythm of his footsteps. A second later, he slips his arms around her waist.

"Hel _-looo_ there, gorgeous yet tragically unaccompanied lady," Chuck croons as he releases her and takes the barstool by her side. He's wearing a blue blazer over a grey oxford shirt and cardinal-red tie, slightly loosened. He leans toward Sarah for a kiss. She surprises him by turning her head so that his kiss lands on her cheekbone rather than her lips.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she murmurs. "A little worried about my breath right now."

Chuck takes a gentle sniff and shrugs. "Nothing but ginger, babe—you're good. I was wondering where you'd gotten to. I'd say something like _'you know you can't get away from me when we're in a jet forty thousand feet over the ocean'_ …except that you probably could."

Sarah smiles mischievously. "But why would I? You knocked me up—you're twice as stuck with me now."

They both laugh at that—then, their conversation momentarily halts as the bartender comes over and lays a napkin down in front of Chuck.

"For you, sir?" he asks.

"Oh, right…" Chuck gestures toward Sarah's half-empty glass. "Whatever my wife's having is fine for me. Thanks."

"I didn't want to wake you," Sarah continues after the bartender steps away. "You looked so comfortable curled up in your seat. So I came up here to give my Mom a call and chat about lady stuff. She sends you her love."

"That's nice. She and Molly doing well?"

"Yes…both are fine."

"Great! I'd have been up here sooner—but I had to check all the forward lavatories first." He shoulder-bumps her…but tenderly.

"H'yeah," Sarah chortles. "Except that by now, there isn't anything left inside for me to hurl."

"You poor thing. Better drink up," Chuck suggests, as the bartender brings him his own glass of ginger ale and tops Sarah's glass off. "Gotta keep you well hydrated, for the little rugrat's sake."

Sarah shoulder-bumps him back—with a bit more _oomph._

"Been thinking about that little rugrat," she says. "A baby will bring some rather drastic changes to our lifestyle. No more jet-setting for quite some time."

Chuck nods. "Seems to fit in nicely with our plans to scale back on the more hazardous aspects of our work, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes—absolutely—but are we going to be okay with that?"

"Why not? There'll be plenty of jobs you and I can do from Castle or the office…or even home. Ellie's still gonna need help with her research. And I haven't even _started_ on mining those files we copied from The Octopus—"

"That's not what I meant, sweetie," Sarah cuts in. "Everything you just rattled off is fine, but none of it pays nearly as well as the big off-site contracts—like this one now that we've got in Germany." She points to the images on her iPhone screen. "Our little company's been on an upward trend all this year, and I'd sure like to keep that going."

"Yeah," agrees Chuck, now sporting one of his classic goofy grins. "Especially since we've got to start saving up for college tuition and all that."

Sarah swats him on the arm and playfully growls, "You'd better not be making fun of me!"

"No, no…I'm just staying optimistic. We'll be just fine, babe. I mean—between the two of us, just think about the skill set we command!"

"True that. And before you know it, it'll be 'between the _three_ of us.' Or is that ' _among_ the three of us?' Anyway, our rugrat's going to be one formidable addition to Clan Bartowski. And—oh, wait a sec—look!"

Sarah's sixth sense draws her notice back to the TV across the bar, just as the news item about Roark Instruments going broke shows up again.

She points to the screen. "Did you hear about _that?"_

Chuck squints to read the text on the crawl—then his body jolts in astonishment. "Wow—no I didn't!"

"I suppose it was bound to happen," reasons Sarah, "without Roark at the helm."

"Yeah. Ted was an evil SOB and he robbed my Dad blind, but nobody can say he didn't know his market inside and out."

"Indeed." Sarah finishes off her ginger aie and reaches down to squeeze her husband's knee. "You know, I'm feeling _much_ better. Ready to go back downstairs?"

"Sure…."

"Any chance the kids are asleep down there in first class?"

"Alex was, but you know Morgan—he's doing that silly meditation he thinks keeps the plane flying. Why do you ask…?"

Sarah chooses to explain by running her forefinger lightly up Chuck's leg, from his knee toward his waist. She bends and whispers huskily in his ear:

"' _Cause I was thinking we'd put a date movie on your iPad, with two sets of earbuds and a nice big blanket…and maybe engage in some clandestine ops."_

" _You_ are _feeling better,"_ Chuck murmurs in her ear. _"But in the middle of first class? We'll have to keep it PG."_

" _Maybe,"_ replies Sarah. _"Maybe not. What was that you just said about our combined skill set…?"_

_(Opening credits and "Short Skirt, Long Jacket" theme by Cake)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nein, nein, Chuck ist nicht mein Immobilien.

**First day, late morning, in the town of Kehl am Rhein, in southwestern Germany on the French border**

Their contact from La Plata Global Gaming meets up with Chuck and Sarah high in a blandish modern office tower at some distance from the Rhine River docks—but they can clearly see the boat from there. The La Plata man points it out to them. Chuck takes out a set of binoculars so that he and Sarah can take a good look at the substantial luxury vessel: three decks; sleek lines; wide windows; spotless and gleaming. Her name—GELIEBTEN LORELEi—proudly emblazoned along the bow.

"Tourist cruises on the Rhine are already huge business…and getting huger," their contact explains. He didn't say where he was from, but his accent isn't German. He sounds vaguely Canadian, like someone from around Toronto.

"Now the German government's changed their law to allow gaming on board domestic cruise boats. Nobody's had an opportunity to try it before."

"And this is a pilot project?" asks Chuck.

"Correct, Mr. Carmichael. We don't own the boat or the crew. We've simply leased space on the promenade deck for our operation. This is La Plata's first venture into floating casinos, and so it's the first time we don't have complete control over the infrastructure. That makes my bosses _extremely_ nervous."

"Got it." Chuck scribbles a few notes with a stylus on his iPad. "What are your primary cybersecurity concerns?"

"Computer-assisted cheating is probably not a big issue with a captive clientele, but we'd like you to test for vulnerability anyway."

"Okay."

"What we're most worried about," continues the La Plata man, "is data theft by external hackers. Our player database is continuously updated with every throw of the dice and every hand played. There'll be a huge two-way flow of juicy credit and behavioral data. Same thing goes for funds transfers, which are all-digital and 24/7. Players can only use smart cards and devices in the casino—no cash at all."

"Plenty of incentives for aggressive cyberattack," suggests Sarah, "spread out over four days and three hundred and twenty klicks of river."

"Exactly, Ms. Carmichael. But we're confident you'll show us how to parry any and all attacks, eh?"

"Count on it," Chuck confidently answers.

"Good. And finally…we want you both to work clandestinely—at least at first—so that our team doesn't know they're being scrutinized. I'm told that's a specialty of your firm."

Sarah and Chuck both nod affirmatively.

"You'll be mingling with millionaires and possibly a few celebrities. The _Geliebten Lorelei_ caters to a comparatively high-end crowd. People who like their own kind… _and_ their privacy."

Chuck smiles. "We've had experience with that demographic."

"So I understand. We'll leave the choice of your cover identities up to you—but nothing related to high technology, eh? We don't want to risk inadvertently tipping our people off about the cybersecurity audit."

"That will be fine," says Sarah. "We already have a suitable cover in mind."

"Will anyone on board be aware of what we're really there to do?" Chuck asks.

"Just the captain…Captain Stübing—"

" _That's his real name?"_ Chuck blurts out with a guffaw. "Captain _Stubing?"_

"Umm…it's _Stübing_ , not Stubing…but yes, that's right," mumbles the La Plata man, not sure why Chuck is so amused. Sarah looks mystified too, but she tosses out a chuckle anyway, to play along with her husband.

"We'll brief the captain shortly before you board. But he won't let on or interfere unless you request it. He has no direct role in our operation, but as he commands the vessel we thought it prudent to inform him about your audit."

"Okay," Chuck says as he takes a few more notes. "I assume he's a reasonable guy."

"Very much so. You'll like him, I think. As a matter of fact, the entire ship's crew is friendly and most accommodating. So nice, one might suspect they're hiding something, eh?"

The La Plata man winks at Chuck and Sarah. "That's meant in jest, of course…."

 

* * *

**An hour later, not far from the Rhine River docks**

Carmichael's Four assemble in a quiet, tree-shaded parking lot where a plain white Mercedes-Benz Sprinter rental van has been left for them. The van has no side or rear windows and looks quite ordinary from the outside.

"Let's see what a hefty advance and an old Agency contact bought for us," says Chuck excitedly, as he opens the van and ushers Alex, Morgan, and Sarah inside.

An instant later, all four of them simultaneously mouth: _Wow._

The interior is outfitted with all the latest surveillance and communications equipment. There are two separate duty stations, each ergonomically configured around a comfortable swivel chair bolted to the van floor. At the rear of the van there is a compact kitchen and even a fold-out bed, already fully made.

Morgan pulls out the bed and makes suggestive eyebrows at Alex, who rolls her eyes and folds the bed back up again.

"Incorrigible," Alex bemoans. "We're on a _mission_ , Morgan!"

"Long hours together on surveillance _can_ sometimes be…stimulating…" Sarah's tone of voice suggests that she's just needling Alex—but a dreamy look comes into her eyes for a moment. Nearby, Chuck turns his head, as if he's very interested in the equipment rack all of a sudden.

"Well not in here! No way," Alex insists. "Not after I've already tracked down the location of every _Landhaus_ from here to Koblenz! We have our per diem and we're gonna use it." She summarily folds her arms across her chest.

"You'll be plenty busy anyway," Chuck tells Morgan. "All of us will. Between scanning for external cyberthreats, and deploying our own random mock attacks…it's occurred to Sarah and me that none of us'll have much time for sleep for a couple of days."

"Whatever," Morgan retorts, and eyeballs the various devices arranged at his duty station. He points out a grey metal box with a plastic dome on top. _"Hey!_ Is this—"

"Yep," replies Chuck. "A Roark RSIT-5854 wi-fi transmitter. Best model on the market, as we learned on the FlixPix job. We've gotta be armed at least as well as our competition."

" _Sweet!"_ Morgan settles contentedly into his chair. "But I sure hope we'll never need the warranty now that R. I.'s gone belly-up!"

"Chuck, the cybersecurity audit looks good to go," says Alex. "But what are we going to do about Jeff and Lester? Are they still the sub-mission?"

"Sub-mission, yes…and _your_ primary targets," Chuck instructs her.

Alex is mildly surprised. "Hmm?"

"Babe, you wanna brief her?"

Sarah nods, leans over the keyboard at Alex's workstation, and enters a few commands. A transcript of Lester and Jeff's mystery playlist, a few assorted documents, and a blurry image of the two wayward musicians on a city street pop up on the big monitor screen.

"That's all the intel we have right now," notes Sarah. "But as you know, the DVD was mailed from Mannheim and Jeff's Facebook activity—at least until four days ago—also places him in or very near Mannheim."

She points to one of the on-screen documents. "And _this_ is a Mannheim college student's blog post about a group matching _Jeffster!_ 's description, playing in a battle of the bands in a local coffee house a week ago."

"But since then…nothing," adds Chuck.

"The _Geliebten Lorelei_ makes a day stop in Mannheim on the third morning of the cruise," Sarah says. "By then we'll have the La Plata job wrapped and we'll be free to tackle Lester and Jeff."

Immediately after saying that, she makes an unpleasant face. "Umm…maybe the wrong choice of words there." All four of them laugh heartily.

"Anyway," Chuck says to Alex after a moment, "you're point on the sub-mission, and your objective is to locate either or both of 'em as soon as possible. When you do, try to establish communication…but keep it low-key, until we find out exactly _why_ they sent us that bizarre message in music."

"Piece of cake!" Alex proclaims, and sits down to start studying the intel that Sarah posted on her monitor screen.

Wishing to appear no less diligent than his lady, Morgan hurriedly pivots around to boot up his own computer. Sarah and Chuck look on with satisfaction—then get started on packing their spy gear and three days' worth of formal and vacation outfits.

 

* * *

**That afternoon, at the slip where the _Geliebten Lorelei_ is docked**

_(Music: "Fernweh," by Herbert Grönemeyer)_

Chuck and Sarah arrive dockside by cab, looking vigorous, stylish, and summer-light: he's in a tan suit with a teal tie, and she's in a teal one-shoulder dress. A young blond crewmember—whose muscles fill out a gold T-shirt and white slacks—appears, to help Sarah out of the vehicle and handle the baggage. He smiles and points toward the gangplank, and scurries off with the his-and-her suitcases.

There is nothing left for Sarah and Chuck to do but join a slow-moving, merry procession of similarly well-dressed couples and casual groups winding their way up onto the boat, which is festive with multicolored banners and balloons bobbing in a mild warm breeze coming off the river.

Chuck nuzzles the back of his wife's neck. "Nice fragrance you've got on."

Sarah wriggles at his touch. "Hey—you're tickling me! But thanks, sweetie. It's Missoni Acqua. Seemed the right accent for a cruise."

At the top of the gangplank Captain Stübing enthusiastically welcomes his passengers. He's a portly short blond-goateed bald man in a snappy white dress uniform. The Captain is jovial and animated: he smiles, belly-laughs, and rocks back and forth on his heels as he greets each new group with handshakes, friendly backslaps, and even an occasional bear hug. Some of the passengers seem to know him well already.

Alongside the Captain stands a taller, thinner, clean-shaven man in a pale-grey suit. He's smiling too—but much more sparely, and he shakes the passengers' hands less demonstrably, after Stübing has had at them.

Eventually it is Sarah and Chuck's turn to be greeted. The Captain seizes their hands with gusto and rumbles, _"Wilkommen! Wilkommen sein!_ Velcome aboard our be _loff_ ed _Lorelei,_ _meinen Herr und Frau—"_

He glances sideways at the quiet man beside him, who murmurs, "Carmichael."

" _Ach ja, natürlich_ — _Herr und Frau_ Carmichael!" He gives Chuck an exaggerated wink as he goes on pumping his right hand.

"Happy to meet you, Captain Stubing—" Chuck offers.

"Ha! Forgiff me, Herr Carmichael…but it's _Stübing!_ _Kapitän_ Emil Stübing, at your zervice. _Und_ zo too is the chentleman here _mit_ me—Herr Taschenratte— _unser Zahlmeister_ …uh, zat is, the purser."

"Delighted, Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael," says Taschenratte, in completely unaccented English, as he bends forward to softly air-kiss the back of Sarah's right hand. As he does, Chuck catches sight of a tiny earpiece in the man's left ear.

Sarah chuckles at the old-school courtesy. _"Es ist mir eine Freude,"_ she tells Taschenratte, who smiles and nods in acknowledgment. (Subtitled: It is my pleasure.)

Then Chuck and Sarah are gently swept forward by the tide of passengers still in line behind them, and onto the sunny upper deck of the _Geliebten Lorelei—_ where revelers are wandering about with drinks in their hands, and a battalion of attractive young servers with full trays are scrambling among them to keep the drinks flowing.

"Surprising that Herr Teschmacher knew who we were?" Chuck asks.

Sarah shrugs. "It's his job. Or maybe someone's feeding him intel. You saw the earbud, right?"

"Uh huh. Should we go below first and check out our cabin? We oughtta make sure our gear arrives there safely." Chuck shifts his attention from his lovely wife to the milling crowd, peering through them in search of the nearest companionway down to the lower decks.

"Roger that." Sarah slips her arm inside Chuck's and starts to take a step forward—but suddenly her husband is frozen in place, with his eyes narrowed and his pupils juddering to and fro, for a full six seconds! Then his head jerks and his body wobbles.

"That was quite a flash," Sarah comments in a low voice, as she pulls Chuck's arm tighter to steady him.

"Yeah—on about half the passengers in sight!" he mutters in reply, still dazed. "Tax evasion. Smuggling. Insider trading. Bribery. All kinds of sleaze. I don't know about the crew—not yet—but our fellow travelers are motley enough on their own!"

"The decadent rich," observes Sarah. 

* * *

Their cabin is on the promenade deck, one level down from the upper deck, and a very short stroll from the entrance to the La Plata Lorelei onboard casino. It's smaller than most of the cabins on the luxury vessel—but still bright, airy, and sumptuously outfitted with plush furniture, trendy toiletries, and a fragrant bouquet of fresh-cut flowers. Chuck and Sarah's two small suitcases had been left for them in the center of the cabin, and they get right to work unpacking them.

In an undisturbed compartment concealed beneath Chuck's clothing is the cybersecurity equipment, including a surveillance detector. Chuck takes it in hand and starts to sweep the cabin for hidden bugs, while Sarah hoists her suitcase onto the bed. She opens a similar secret compartment, but this one holds two handguns, a tranq pistol, two sets of throwing knives…and a small pearly-white cosmetic case with a fancy curlicued top that looks completely out of place.

Sarah sits on the queen-size bed, removes the fancy case and pops it open, then gazes with satisfaction on eight very authentic-looking false fingernails and two tiny microchips. Humming softly to herself, she attaches one of the fake nails to her right index finger—it's a perfect fit.

"Room's clean," Chuck announces, and tosses the detector back into his suitcase.

"That's good," Sarah replies without diverting her attention from her work. She slides one of the microchips beneath her right thumbnail. The microchip has a fast-acting adhesive on it, so it's instantly and strongly affixed under the nail, out of sight.

"And here I thought we were being a little paranoid, packing all that firepower for a mostly ELINT job," says Chuck. "But after that flash I just had, I'm glad we did."

Then he notices that his wife is up to something, and comes over to sit on the bed next to her.

"What's that, baby?"

"A little surprise." Sarah holds out her hand, fingers splayed, so that she can inspect the false nail. It looks good. Her real fingernails are already painted to match the color of the fake one, so it blends in well. Satisfied, she turns toward Chuck.

"If you had a _normal_ wife," she goes on, "then by 'a little surprise' I might be referring to some new and sexy lingerie. But I think you're gonna like this too."

Sarah holds up her right hand and taps the thumb and index finger together three times in rapid succession—as if she's giving Chuck the OK sign—and a two-centimeter-long knife blade, thin and transparent as fine glass, silently slides out from beneath the fake fingernail. Chuck whistles softly in nerdish appreciation of his warrior spouse's new high-tech appendage.

"Single-crystal zirconia," Sarah says proudly. "Sharper and tougher than any metal blade—it'll cut through a steel cable. And way more elegant than any concealed knives I've used before. Pretty cool, don't you think?"

"I'll say! Where'd you get it?"

Two more taps of the thumb and forefinger, and the subtle knife retracts.

"Carina sent a whole box. A thank-you gift for helping her out with that drug bust in Arizona. She sent something for you too." Sarah's expression turns mischievous. She reaches back into her suitcase…and brings out some new and sexy lingerie!

Chuck whistles again—much more emphatically this time.

"It was a gift card for Victoria's Secret. She said I needed to wear things like this for you _while I still can!_ Her exact words."

Sarah's lips droop into a peeved pout. "She always has to get that little dig in…."

Chuck _tsk-tsks_ and takes her in his arms.

"She's just jealous. You know full well that as far as _I'm_ concerned, you'll be hotter than hot no matter what trimester it is."

Sarah sighs happily and lays her head on his shoulder. "I _do_ know, but I still love to hear it. And you're welcome to keep going."

"Okay then…how about: Pregnancy is beautiful, and you'll be the most stunning pregnant woman on the—"

Chuck stops in mid-sentence and goes a bit pale. Sarah lifts her head and looks at him with concern.

"What's the matter, sweetie?"

"Babe…there's no chance of one of those fake fingernails deploying by accident…is there? I could think of a _really_ bad time for that to happen…."

Sarah giggles. "Hmm, whatever could you be thinking of? But of course not, silly. I can lock them down if I need to."

Then she brings her face up close to his, coos, "Though a little risk might heighten the thrill…wouldn't you say?" and lightly rakes her fingertips across his back.

"Talk about crazy in love," Chuck murmurs in her ear.

Sarah retorts, "You have _no_ idea," and playfully bites his lower lip. That leads directly to heated soul-kissing—until Sarah and Chuck both nearly tumble off the bed when the basso voice of _Kapitän_ Stübing blasts out from a loudspeaker in the passageway just outside their cabin:

" _Darf ich um Ihre Aufmerksamkeit bitten? Wir fahren in fünfzehn minuten! May I have your attention, please, guests? We depart in fifteen minutes!"_

"Oh yeah, right," Chuck grumbles. "Work to do."

"If you can call it that," Sarah counters, as she takes in all of their comfy cabin and the generous view of the river through their cabin window.

 

* * *

**Twenty minutes later**

_The_ Geliebten Lorelei _casts off from the dock and glides out into the middle of the river channel, smoothly cleaving the deep-green water, beginning its relaxed journey down the storied Rhine past tree-lined banks and pastoral fields..._

A few passengers linger on the upper deck to wave goodbye to friends and loved ones. But most of them head to the promenade deck and the alluring new _La Plata Lorelei_ floating casino—Sarah and Chuck among them.

Inside, the décor is distinct from that of the rest of the ship: emphasizing dark woods and polished brass instead of tinted glass and chrome. Table games—blackjack, craps, roulette, and baccarat—predominate here. There are only a few slot machines and these are far less showy than the raucous, cartoony types common to American mega-casinos. The bar is centrally placed—and as of yet, empty of patrons—although the pretty servers are already fanning out from there with their cocktail trays.

Chuck and Sarah station themselves at the bar and order drinks for cover, then start to reconnoiter the room according to their complementary skills. Sarah studies the players and the staff. Chuck inobtrusively wields his amped-up iPhone. It appears as if he's texting, but he's actually using a custom app to gauge the level of cell-phone and other signals traffic in and out of the casino: data transmitted directly to Morgan in the spy van for later analysis.

"Very diverse clientele," Sarah quietly notes. "Plenty of Middle Easterners as well as Europeans. And the serving staff seems predominantly female, young, and attractive." She nudges Chuck with her elbow. "I'm sure you've noticed that part."

"Only in passing, babe," he replies with a grin. "Only in passing. But have _you_ noticed how many of 'em there seem to be—both in here _and_ all over the ship?"

"Yes—by my count, about two servers for every passenger. That seems excessive."

Chuck nods. "You'd think so. But maybe it's the kind of excess that the decadent rich demand—"

" _Hello!"_ suddenly comes a friendly, British-accented male voice from behind them.

Startled, Chuck and Sarah turn in that direction and are greeted by a middle-aged man about Sarah's height; with a good build, lean suntanned face, sea-blue eyes, and a full head of silver hair. He's wearing a black jacket over a blue-and-white floral print shirt with the collar wide open. He looks like a happily retired B-list actor or rock musician. Chuck slips his iPhone into his jacket pocket and steels himself for another Intersect flash.

"Ey up, mi duck," the man continues while shaking Chuck's hand. "M'name's Graydon Lightfoot but please call me Grady."

"We're Charles and Sarah Carmichael." Chuck relaxes slightly when he fails to flash on the man's face. Grady bows his head as he shakes Sarah's hand.

"Yanks, are you?"

"We are," Sarah replies.

"Splendid!" Grady bellows. "I'm relieved to find at least a few drinkers of distinction in our party." He flicks his hand derisively at the knots of people clustered around the different table games. "All those Saudis and Emiratis—they'll come here to gamble like mad but they still draw the line at alcohol. And I'd rather hate to spend three whole days drinking alone!"

"Not _quite_ alone!" interjects a smoky-voiced woman who approaches from the direction of the baccarat tables.

"Oh, hello luv—meet our new friends, Charles and Sarah Carmichael." Grady gives her a quick peck on the cheek. "This is my wife Cherise."

"Well _hi_ there—it's _such_ a pleasure," Cherise Lightfoot says breathily, extending both hands out as if she was intent on a group hug.

She's a fiftyish stunner: taller than her husband and nearly as tall as Chuck; green-eyed; with shoulder-length reddish-gold hair and a few subdued hints of grey; and inescapably curvaceous in a form-fitting cream-colored dress. As she moves in close to Sarah and Chuck to shake their hands, she assails them with the aroma of a sweet and faintly musky _eau de cologne_. The scent reflexively sets Sarah's teeth on edge, but she conceals her irritation and only Chuck picks up on it.

Then Cherise turns her face toward Chuck and gives him a supermodel smile—and he flashes _big time_ on her: _American—high society—expatriate—SPY!—former MI-6 exfiltration expert—dismissed without prejudice—details redacted…!_

Whether this strange brassy woman noticed Chuck's "flash face" or not, Sarah realizes that she's staring for an awkwardly long time at him—as if she sees something that's intrigued her…or something she _wants…._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Huh-uh, don't own Chuck….

**Second day, early morning: at a small family-run _Landhaus_ in the riverside town of Hügelsheim**

Morgan and Alex exit the hotel into a cool, damp, quiet morning just past dawn. They stagger in an almost drunken way, across the parking lot to their spy van, with Alex a half-step in the lead and Morgan pulling their shared overnight roller bag behind him… _thump_ ing and _bump_ ing over cracks in the asphalt.

" _Ohhhh,"_ Alex moans dizzily. "I'm _sooo_ stuffed—but I swear, that was one of the best breakfasts I've ever had!

"Double roger that," concurs Morgan. "All those different _Brötchen_ …that Black Forest ham…and the cheeses—the cheeses! Is this really how they eat around here?"

"If it is, we're gonna need to run three laps around Germany every evening," muses Alex as she unlocks the van and climbs inside. Morgan passes the bag up to her and gets in, closing the door behind him.

Inside, blinking LEDs, columns of code rolling lazily up monitor screens, and a soft hum together tell of a night's worth of automated data collection.

Morgan rubs his hands together excitedly. "The real work begins—a whole day of 'phased dummy cyberattacks using multiple vectors'—that's how Chuck put it, of course."

Alex grins. "In other words, getting paid to poke big holes in your employer's most secure systems."

"And with extreme prejudice," Morgan says gleefully, as he takes his seat at his duty station. "How many people can say they get to do _that?_ Gotta love C. I…huh?"

"Yeah…I suppose." But now Alex seems troubled by something.

"What's the matter, honey?"

"Morgan…do we have time to talk?" Alex flops down into her swivel chair and rolls closer to her boyfriend, as he glances up at a chronometer mounted on the van wall.

"Sure. Chuck and Sarah were scoping the casino until pretty late last night. They're probably just getting up about now. So yeah…what's bothering you, babe?"

"It's C. I., actually." Alex reaches out and takes both of Morgan's hands in hers. "Sarah and Chuck are going to have a baby. A family! Things are going to change…maybe not right away, but eventually. We need to be prepared."

Morgan leans forward and kisses her tenderly on the cheek. "Don't worry about that. Chuck and Sarah aren't just gonna throttle back and turn us out on the street. _We're_ family too—"

Alex clucks her tongue. "I'm not worried about what _they_ do, silly—I'm worried about _us!_ We can't just depend on Sarah and Chuck—or on anybody else—for security the whole rest of our lives! We need to have more options."

Still holding Morgan's hands, she looks him in the eye.

" _You_ …need to have more options."

Morgan jerks upright in his chair. "Huh? What are you talking about?"

"You never finished college," Alex continues. "You need to go back. You're smart and you know full well that people with degrees do better than people without them."

Her tone of voice gets more emphatic. "Chuck never could've been a CIA agent and none of _this_ would have been possible"—she gestures at all the sophisticated equipment in the van—"if he hadn't completed his Stanford degree."

"With Sarah's help," retorts Morgan defensively. "She told you 'bout all that, didn't she?"

Alex nods yes. "She was just righting a wrong. And so what? Chuck still earned it. Maybe it's time for you to earn yours."

Looking perplexed, Morgan asks, "And how do we swing that?"

"What if I support us _both_ for a while and you go back to school?" Alex suggests. "I can ask Sarah and Chuck to let me take on more of the work…at a higher salary."

"Or," she adds matter-of-factly, "if _they_ can't swing _that_ , I'll just go find something else. I have a _very_ marketable degree!"

Alex's expression proves that she's completely serious, and Morgan's expression reveals that she has taken him quite by surprise. Softly, with a little catch in his voice, he asks, "You'd…do that for me, babe?"

Alex smiles and squeezes both of his hands.

"Sure I would—for _us_. Besides, I figure there'll eventually be a decent return on my investment." Playfully, she holds her open left hand up in front of Morgan's face and wiggles the ring finger—then, after a moment, she cries, _"Kidding!"_

"Oh, I hope not," Morgan avows, and happily kisses his lady.

 

* * *

**Aboard the _Geliebten Lorelei_ , a few kilometers upstream**

Chuck and Sarah, in L. A.-style yachting attire, enter the elegant, quiet dining room on the promenade deck. There are few diners yet—but as always, there are plenty of young, energetic servers bustling about.

On the opposite side of the room near the swinging double doors to the kitchen, the purser Taschenratte stands, in his grey suit, hands on hips, silently observing everything. He seems to be pleased with what he sees. He smiles and gives a friendly—if restrained—wave to Sarah and Chuck as the hostess leads them to a table alongside a big window. Then he pivots on his heels and darts into the kitchen.

A waiter is already there to hold Sarah's chair out for her, while Chuck takes a seat facing his wife across the small round table. Outside their window, the Rhine meanders among a number of glittering azure lakes just beyond its grassy banks: old flooded gravel pits rendered picturesque by time.

After the hostess hands them menus, and she and the waiter step away, Sarah leans across the table, grinning at Chuck and tapping her fingertips on the tabletop.

"Thank goodness you made it through the night without sustaining any grievous wounds," she teases.

"I was about to say the same about you," replies Chuck.

" _Hah!"_ Sarah snickers—but under cover of the long white tablecloth, she strokes her leg against his.

A waitress—diminutive, young, and very pretty, with braided jet-black hair and dark indigo eyes—bustles over to their table with a tea-cart, to offer them a selection of beverages.

"Ginger-root tea, please," Sarah asks with a cordial smile.

"Coffee for me, thanks," Chuck says. As the young woman sets a carafe and teapot down on the table, he reads her name badge: _Ich heiße VAMA._ Curiously—but just like all the badges the servers wear—it has a QR code imprinted next to her name.

"Is that Vama, rhymes with _momma_ —or Vama, rhymes with _slamma-jamma?"_

Vama giggles. "Like the momma, sir," she replies, in an accent that Chuck has never heard spoken before. Sarah looks up in surprise, studies Vama's features for a moment, and then:

" _Latcho dives…ov yilo isi?"_ (Subtitled: Good day…Did I say that right?)

Vama _gasps_ and nearly topples into her tea-cart.

" _Latcho dives!_ Madam, you—you are right—I am Roma—or Gypsy, as some will call us. But how you know this? And you speak our language?"

"I've traveled some," says Sarah. "But I only know a few Romani phrases. Just enough to be dangerous." She winks at the young server.

"Oh…you do not look dangerous to me, madam," Vama innocently responds.

"Looks can fool ya," Chuck quips—and gets another under-the-table nudge from his wife.

Vama takes their breakfast order and rolls her cart back to the kitchen with a big grin. Chuck and Sarah watch her go, both tickled by her youthful show of excitement.

"She's real sweet," Sarah says.

"And I think you just made her day," suggests Chuck.

Sarah rolls her eyes. "Yeah…but now I'm gonna have to brush up on my Romani."

Chuck laughs—and then, across the dining room, he spots the muscular blond crewmember who had delivered their bags to their cabin the previous afternoon. He waves the young man over to their table.

"How may I help you, mein Herr?" the crewmember asks, leaning down and flashing a crisp smile, his teeth nearly as bright as Sarah's. This time he's got a name badge on: _Ich heiße PJETER._ And there's a QR code on his badge too.

"Yes…um…Peter. You carried our bags for us yesterday—remember?—but we never got a chance to tip you." Chuck reaches for his wallet, but Pjeter shakes his head.

" _Danke schön,_ sir…but zere is no need. All gratuities are included in your fare. Ve are pleased to zerve you." He glances from Chuck to Sarah and back again. " _Und_ are you both enjoying your trip zo far?"

"Very much so," Sarah replies cheerfully. "And thank you for asking."

" _Bitte schön, meinen Herr und Frau."_ (Subtitled: You are welcome, Sir and Ma'am.)

Pjeter gives them a little salute and starts back toward the spot where he had previously been standing. Taschenratte emerges from the kitchen, catches sight of the young crewmember, and summons him—just loudly enough that Chuck and Sarah can make his words out:

" _Herr Malota—komm her, bitte."_ Unexpectedly…Chuck _flashes_ once again!

Afterward, Sarah takes hold of Chuck's hands and leans toward him—as if she's going to whisper something romantic in his ear.

"Did you just flash on that name?"She peeks warily over Chuck's shoulder at Pjeter and Taschenratte, as they quietly converse on the other side of the room.

"Yeah… _Pjeter Malota_ …really bad dude…ran the German branch of the Albanian mafia all through the '70s and '80s."

"He seems way too young," Sarah remarks, with a doubtful expression. "Maybe that's Pjeter, Junior? Or maybe he's no relation at all?"

"Well, that would explain why I haven't flashed on his face," Chuck speculates.

"Hopefully the truth won't be of any concern to us," says Sarah.

"Still, I'm getting a bit of a bad vibe from this whole cruise," Chuck admits…and Sarah nods in agreement.

* * *

Before long, Vama returns, trundling two sumptuous breakfasts to their table. As they eat, Sarah and Chuck quietly talk through their plan of action for the day. They're just about finished with their meal when the assertive scent of Cherise Lightfoot's _eau de cologne_ infiltrates their space.

"Not again." Sarah scrunches up her face and puts down her fork.

Chuck groans and nods toward the two empty chairs at their table, which is barely big enough for the two of them. "We should've had Pjeter take those away for us."

"Too late now," replies Sarah under her breath. "On your six."

"Ey up! 'Owya goin' on then?" From behind, Grady Lightfoot slaps a hand on Chuck's shoulder—and nearly spills the full glass of white wine he's holding in his other hand.

"Mind if we join you?" Cherise Lightfoot asks, then sits down between Sarah and Chuck without waiting for their reply. As she inserts herself into the narrow space, Cherise momentarily props her well-endowed body against Chuck as if to steady herself, while ignoring the scowl she gets from Sarah.

Once seated, she tilts her head toward Chuck and murmurs, "Did you enjoy that?"

Chuck jolts in surprise. _"Huh?"_

"Your breakfast." Cherise points to Chuck's empty plate. "Did you enjoy it? I'll bet it was yummy, if last night's dinner selection was any indication. Pity for me that I don't _eat_ …breakfast."

"One does have to watch the calories at your age, I imagine," comments Sarah.

Before his wife can respond, Grady makes a show of hoisting his glass of wine.

"Me, I just like a lil' _milk_ for mi breakfast." He chortles and looks from Chuck to Sarah—fishing for a laugh but getting only baffled smiles instead.

"Bit of a manky pun, I s'pose," he continues after a moment. "This is _Liebfraumilch._ Rhine wine, a local specialty. 'S a pun because the name means—"

"Beloved lady's milk," Sarah translates.

"Ah!" exclaims Chuck. "Got it."

"Delicious." Grady proffers the glass. "Care for a swag, Charles?"

Chuck puts up his hands. "No…thanks but no. It's a bit too early. For me anyway."

"We _wanted_ to catch you early," Cherise says with enthusiasm. She reaches out to pat Chuck's knee, in the process tossing her strawberry-blonde-and-gray mane and wafting a bit more of her man-melting scent at him. "Graydon and I were wondering what plans you two dears might have for today."

Sarah frowns with deep suspicion. "Why do you ask?"

"Got a full day's stop for sightseeing in Karlsruhe today," Grady answers.

"And we thought we might make it a foursome," adds Cherise, winking at Chuck. "It's a _very_ lovely city, you know."

"We know," Sarah echoes, while Chuck tries his utmost to look really disappointed.

"Gee, Cherise…Grady," he says apologetically, "we sure appreciate your invitation. But I actually brought some work that I need to finish up by today."

" _That's_ a shame," pouts Cherise.

"What _is_ your line of work," asks Grady, "if you don't mind mi prying?"

"Don't mind at all," replies Chuck. "Sarah and I are in the laundromat business. Coin-operated laundromats. Amazingly high return and we've pretty much cornered the market in southern California."

"Uh-huh," mutters Grady, who clearly wasn't expecting _that_ for an answer.

Cherise begins to say, "Well, that's…that's…" and awkwardly hesitates, searching for an appropriate adjective…"that's, hmm, surprisingly _mundane_ for such a dynamic-looking couple."

"And what about you two?" asks Sarah, ignoring the snarky backhand. "How'd _you_ make your fortune?"

"With _talent!"_ Cherise exclaims, puffing up her ample chest.

"For _what?"_ Sarah retorts, with her own snarky little smile.

"Oh.. _ha-ha_ …no, I meant that Graydon and I are talent _scouts_ …and agents. For the entertainment industry, of course. Live theater and Broadway musicals, mostly. Our agency has offices in New York and London."

"That's interesting," says Chuck, still trying to keep the situation polite. He instantly regrets the throwaway comment when Cherise pounces on it.

"Oh you have _no_ idea, dear!" She pats Chuck's knee again and starts chattering breathlessly about actors and actresses and their personality quirks….

Sarah rolls her eyes and momentarily shifts her attention to Grady—just in time to catch _his_ eyes wandering to the next table, where Vama is bending low to pour coffee for another diner. He looks the young Romani girl over, top to bottom…not with a leer, but dispassionately, as if he's somehow… _sizing her up?_

Sarah shrugs—they _did_ say they were talent scouts—and turns back to the challenge of freeing herself and her poor husband—courteous to a fault, as usual—from the overbearing Mr. and Mrs. Lightfoot…without having to resort to deadly force.

 

* * *

**Two hours later, at the _Rheinhafen_ Karlsruhe (the harbor)**

The mid-morning sky is sunny and the air is warming quickly. The _Geliebten Lorelei_ has docked for the day, and most of her passengers have already disembarked for sightseeing, shopping, or daytime debauchery in the vibrant big city of Karlsruhe.

Posing as sun worshippers in swimwear and dark sunglasses, Chuck and Sarah set themselves up on plush lounge chairs in a corner of the mostly open-air upper deck. Chuck has a C. I.-customized tablet computer ready to go beneath his flexing fingers—and a bottle of white wine chilling in a bucket of ice by his side. Sarah has her iPad, and a growler of ginger ale in her own ice bucket. They're both wearing earbuds.

Anyone observing them would think that _he_ was a workaholic who just couldn't resist bringing the office along on vacation—and that _she_ was generously passing up a day in town to keep her mate company, armed with nothing more than an e-book.

"Babe?"

"Uh huh?"

"D'you think Cherise is spying on us? She was MI-6 after all."

Sarah snickers. "Could be…or maybe she's after something _other_ than intel."

"Well, _that's_ a non-starter." Chuck cranes his neck to see what's on his wife's iPad screen. "Checking out their website?"

"Yep. Lightfoot-Lightfoot Consulting, LLC. I'd like to know if their talent agency is really as high-powered as she claims it is."

"Proactive is good," replies Chuck, nodding sagely.

"Hmm." Sarah focuses intently on her screen and starts flipping through the publicity photos posted on the Lightfoots' site. "Can't say I recognize any of these performers or models…Not that I really know anything about Broadway or West End!"

"Nor do I."

"These definitely tend toward the young and…um…well-equipped, either gender." Sarah goes on scanning the photos—occasionally frowning, rolling her eyes, or simply staring slack-jawed. Chuck looks on with increasing amusement.

Eventually, Sarah shakes her head roughly and closes the website.

"Okay—that's enough of that!" She pats her husband on the shoulder. "Just a momentary distraction. I'm ready to roll, sweetie. I'll watch your back while you go elbows-deep into cyberspace."

 _(Meanwhile…Morgan and Alex have brought the spy van to the top level of a six-story parking garage located a few blocks from the_ Rheinhafen, _where they have some privacy and a direct line of sight to Chuck and Sarah on deck. While Alex is already immersed in her cyber-search for the whereabouts of Jeff Barnes and Lester Patel, Morgan is poised at his workstation, waiting for orders from Chuck.)_

Chuck opens an encrypted channel and softly intones, "You reading me, buddy?"

( _"Big affirmative,"_ answers Morgan from inside the van.)

"Good. Stand by. I wanna loosen up first." Chuck leans over and grabs the neck of the brown-glass wine bottle. As he extracts the bottle from the ice bucket, Sarah spies the label and is mildly surprised.

"Hey—that's _Liebfraumilch!_ Not your usual chardonnay?"

"Just putting ol' Grady's recommendation to the test. Besides—when in Karlsruhe…" Chuck winks at her, tilts the bottle up for a quick gulp, and smiles in approval. "It's actually pretty good!"

"In that case, I'm gonna keep one eye on the surroundings and one eye on _you!"_ joshes Sarah. "No way are you ending up like him!"

Chuck laughs, replaces the bottle…and under his wife's proud and watchful gaze, seamlessly shifts into the persona of the _Piranha:_ the master hacker.

_(Music: "Programmiert," by Tim Bendzko)_

The Piranha plunks both of his hands, fingers outspread, onto the touch-screen, as if to play a piano. But this "performance" is a two-pronged mock cyberattack against the casino's information systems. With his left hand, the Piranha deploys a malware package that hammers forcefully against La Plata's firewall—and with his right, he probes the cracks in the code with scalpel-like precision, seeking to insinuate his way into the casino intranet, from which the most vital and potentially valuable transactions could be stolen or compromised by a true enemy.

Over in the van, Morgan is fully in the loop—monitoring the Piranha's hacking line-by-line, and ready to record whatever transpires.

Sarah is multitasking too: carefully watching their perimeter, finishing her analysis of the Lightfoots' website, and glancing over at her husband as he works. He's already elbows-deep and hasn't needed to flash. The Intersect can come in handy sometimes… _but this is all him_. Sarah sighs happily.

"Taking longer than I expected to get in," the Piranha mutters. "I'm impressed."

"They must be listening to your advice," Sarah suggests.

"Some of it anyway. But _heeere_ we go, and— _ah!_ Now _that's_ interesting!" He sweeps a finger across his screen in Sarah's direction, and a new document pops up on her iPad.

_(Simultaneously, the same doc appears on Morgan's screen in the spy van.)_

"Go ahead and open it, both of you," the Piranha instructs, without lifting his eyes from his own screen. "That's the complete passenger, crew, and cargo manifest for the _Lorelei._ On La Plata's site."

( _"Something wrong with that?"_ asks Morgan.)

"We were told the boat and the casino are totally separate ops," Sarah realizes. "But this would suggest otherwise."

"Exactly! Have a good look at it, babe…maybe you can find some other useful intel on our new friends from London."

Sarah nods. "Will do."

All the while the Piranha is still typing, clicking, and mousing at breakneck speed. A second or so later, he blurts out, _"Aaaaaand_ —there's more where _that_ came from!"

" _Hssst!_ Not so loud, sweetie."

"Sorry…but…but look! I can't _believe_ it, babe! The casino's got its own backdoor into the _ship's_ systems! All of 'em—even security and navigation…."

( _"D'you think the cruise line knows that?"_ asks Morgan.)

"Good question! Babe, d'ya think we should confer with Cap'n Stubing—"

" _Stübing,"_ Sarah corrects him.

"Right."

"Let's hold off on that for the time being," she counsels. "We can always mention it in our final report."

"Fair enough," says the Piranha. "Whether the cruise line knows about this or not, I'll bet La Plata corporate has no idea!"

Then—suddenly and surprisingly—he begins to chortle, and tilts his tablet computer in Sarah's direction.

"Check this out babe!" On screen is an image of an old-fashioned ship's wheel, flanked by dozens of more contemporary digital switches and gauges. A live-cam image of the Rhine out in front of the boat extends across the top of the screen.

"Is that what I think it is?" asks Sarah incredulously. "The _bridge?"_

"Yep _—heh-heh—_ so d'you wanna drive the boat?"

"Even the Piranha can't be _that_ crazy, can h—" Sarah abruptly looks up in alarm and nudges her husband with her elbow. "Incoming!"

He pulls his computer back, blanks the screen, and is Chuck once more. A moment later Vama arrives—with another pretty, dark-haired young female server in tow. She looks Romani too, and perhaps a year or two older than Vama.

" _Latcho dives!_ Are you both comfortably enjoying yourselves?" Without waiting for a response, Vama points to her companion. "This is my cousin Zora. She is with the waitstaff, just as me."

Chuck smiles and says, "Very nice to meet you, Zora."

Zora smiles back, and gives a little curtsy, but says nothing. As shy and unassuming as Vama is, her cousin is even more so.

"Will you want more soda, madam?" Vama asks after a moment. "Or perhaps more wine for you, sir?"

"I think we're both good," Sarah replies, lifting her sunglasses up to gaze kindly at the two young women. "Thank you for checking though."

Vama and Zora smile and nod, but they don't budge. Instead, they keep staring expectantly and a little abashedly at Sarah—until she finally realizes what they're waiting for.

" _Droboy tume Romale. Chailo sim, nais tuke."_ (Subtitled: Greetings. I am full, thank you.)

" _Nais tuke!"_ Vama and Zora reply in tandem—then run off, giggling.

Once they've gone, Chuck leans over to kiss his wife. "You're the best, baby."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Same as it ever was: I do not own Chuck.

**Third day, shortly after midnight, on the lowermost deck of the _Geliebten Lorelei_**

From one of the numerous compact but tidy crew cabins—deep in the windowless lower deck of the luxury vessel—the lively sounds of a folk guitar being played vigorously, accompanied by a few female and male voices singing in simple harmony, seep out into the main passageway.

There, the energetic song is swallowed up by the steady _thrumma-thrumma_ throb of the ship's massive engines in the hold below. But the music carries farther in the insulated ventilation ducts that snake through the space between the lower deck and the promenade deck:

" _Moj dilbere, kud' se šećeš?_

_haj što i mene ne povedeš_

_haj što i mene ne povedeš…._

(Subtitled: My darling, where are you going?

Come on why don't you take me there too

come on why don't you take me there too….)

Chuck hears the music because he is crawling through that very ductwork, toward a spot directly beneath the La Plata Lorelei casino on the deck above—and coincidentally, in the direction of the source of the music on the deck below.

Our hero is zipped head-to-toe into a black Tyvek® ops suit, with a palm-sized electronic device affixed to the chest, a compact air-conditioning backpack to keep him cool and comfortable, a micro headset for communication, and low-profile night-vision goggles with a built-in video camera. He couldn't be better equipped for his task, and he has plenty of backup as well.

" _Što te volim, ah što te ljubim_

_aman, aman, Bože moj…_

(Subtitled: How much I love you, ah how much I love you—

enough, enough for God's sake!)

 

* * *

**In the spy van, about a kilometer away**

"Is that…singing I hear?" asks Morgan, who is keeping tabs on Chuck's movements from the onboard control center, while Alex drives the van. She smoothly pilots the ordinary-looking vehicle through scanty wee-hours traffic on a two-lane scenic road that parallels the Rhine, while keeping the bright lights of the northward-steaming _Lorelei_ always in view.

 _("Yes it is,"_ Chuck replies. _"Backed by one hella good guitarist. It's coming from the crew quarters. Sarah—I don't suppose you recognize the language…?")_

_("Povedi me, u čaršiju_

_haj pa me prodaj bazardžanu….)_

(Subtitled: What a terrible man oh he is!

He is taking me to the market

And selling me in the bazaar….)

 

* * *

**On the promenade deck**

" _Not clear enough to know for sure. Bosnian or Russian maybe,"_ adds Sarah, her voice pitched just loudly enough to register on a tiny mike in the silver pendant necklace she's wearing: a pretty accent for an elegant evening dress as black as Chuck's ops suit.

With an empty cocktail glass in hand, Sarah meanders along the promenade deck near the still very lively casino, making a show of yawning and rubbing her eyes whenever anyone looks her way. She appears to be wandering in a sleepy daze, trying to find her husband and drag him back to their cabin. But Sarah is actually fully alert and carefully tracking Chuck, keeping pace as he crabwalks through the ductwork under the floor and directly beneath her high-heels.

 _("Whoever's playing that guitar's got some skills,"_ Chuck continues—attentive as always to music, even when he's immersed in a task. _"Really fast fingers.")_

" _Mm-hmm,"_ replies Sarah. She makes sure nobody has eyes on her at that instant, then furtively checks the tracking app running on her iPhone. _"Okay…looks like you're within three meters of target, sweetie."_

 _("Two point ninety-four precisely,"_ Morgan chimes in. _"Good estimate, Sarah. Our boy's almost in range.")_

 

* * *

**Directly below deck, in the ventilation duct**

The singing and guitar-playing grow steadily louder; Chuck is nearing the crew cabin. Just ahead of him, music and light stream up into the air duct through an intake panel. Chuck stealthily crawls up to the panel, and he and his head-mounted video camera take in the scene together….

The guitarist sits on a bunk directly beneath him—and it's _Vama_ —playing at full throttle with her eyes shut and a smile of pure pleasure on her face. Her cousin Zora sits alongside her, swaying and softly clapping her hands in time. Others are there in the cabin, singing—but Chuck's field of view is too narrow for him to be able to see them.

All chatter on the C. I. comm link abruptly halts as everyone listens in.

 _("Your cute little friend…wow,"_ mutters Morgan after a few moments. _"Amazing.")_

 _("She ought to be performing for the passengers,"_ Sarah says in admiration _, "not just bringing them drinks.")_

" _I suspect Taschenratte is totally clueless,"_ muses Chuck.

Without warning, there is a knock— _(punnk! punnk! punnk!)—_ on the cabin door. The singing stops. Vama puts her guitar down, and someone out of Chuck's line of sight goes to open the door. Chuck turns up the gain on his microphone.

" _Guten abend,_ Pjeter," says Vama hesitantly. _"Kommen in. Es gibt Bier."_ (Subtitled: Good evening. C'mon in. There's beer.)

Chuck shuts his eyes, ready to trigger an Intersect flash on German—but before he can, Sarah starts translating the conversation over the comm link:

" _Thank you—but I am only just passing through. I heard your music and wondered where it was coming from. You play quite well, Vama…."_

" _Thanks."_

"… _But also too loudly, perhaps?"_

" _No…I don't think anyone on the upper decks can hear us._ Heh, heh— _unless maybe someone is crawling in the pipes?"_

Prudently, Chuck goes _very_ still.

" _And you do know that by company rules, you and everyone here are supposed to be resting when you are off duty—this is correct?"_

" _You're not going to report us to Herr Taschenratte…are you, Pjeter?"_

" _Of course not, Vama! I would never! I'm only cautioning you to be careful, especially since this is the probationary cruise for you and most of your fellow servers. Remember that we all are scrutinized constantly—not only for how diligently we work—but also how we behave when we are_ not _working."_

" _None of us here have heard any complaints about our work_ or _our behavior, Pjeter."_

" _Very good. And I am sure we all appreciate the opportunity that Herr Taschenratte and the company have given to each of us. Good evening to all."_

Chuck hears the cabin door close, and Pjeter's first few footsteps down the passageway, before they are lost in the engine noise. Vama picks up her guitar and starts softly strumming it.

Someone in the cabin grumbles, _"Just because he's been around for a couple of cruises, he acts like he's the boss of us."_

Vama replies, _"Pjeter's kind of a—"_ (Sarah pauses in her translation for a second, pondering the best English equivalent of the German word _Depp_.)

"— _kind of a dweeb. But I think he's trying hard to be liked."_

" _Maybe too hard,"_ says another, and everyone in the cabin laughs. Then Vama starts playing for real once more.

Chuck shrugs and moves on, deeper into the duct.

 _("A touch of interpersonal drama in the ranks, huh?"_ Morgan asks.)

 _("If I heard Pjeter right,"_ Sarah observes, _"all or nearly all of the waitstaff are brand-new hires. That's peculiar.")_

" _To put it mildly,"_ concurs Chuck. _"Why would they use a lot of unproven rookies on a fancy trip with such high-dollar passengers? Seems like no way to run a cruise line."_

 _("Unless_ these _passengers like 'em young,"_ Morgan suggests.)

 _("Ewww,"_ Sarah replies.)

* * *

Five minutes later, Chuck has reached his target: a point in the ductwork directly beneath the midpoint of the casino. He rolls over on his back to lie prone on the galvanized metal. There's a small maintenance hatch above him and he opens it, revealing the framed underside of the floor above. Stray sounds of animated conversation and cheering, shuffling feet, and even the occasional clatter of thrown dice filter down through the floor.

Chuck unfastens the small device from his chest and reaches up through the hatch to attach it to the flooring.

" _On station and deployed,"_ he alerts his team. _"Everybody set for thirty seconds of radio silence?"_

 _("Ready,"_ Sarah says.)

 _("Same here,"_ adds Morgan.)

Chuck switches off his headset, and slips the night-vision goggles off his eyes. A faint yellow LED on the front panel of the device above his head provides just enough light to guide him. He reaches up and presses a button, and the LED goes from yellow to red. The device hums softly for a few seconds. After the humming stops, the LED switches to green.

Chuck _hmmphs_ softly in satisfaction and dons his gear again, then retrieves the test device and closes the maintenance hatch.

" _That's that,"_ he reports. _"All their core data systems are sufficiently hardened against hostile electromagnetic pulse. So now there's just one last test."_

 _("And we're doing that tomorrow—right?"_ Sarah asks. _"I'm getting to where I don't have to fake feeling sleepy."_ She emphasizes her point with a fully authentic yawn.)

" _Of course, babe. We've still got a whole day and night before Mannheim."_ He flips back over on all fours and continues another meter forward to a fork in the ductwork. One branch curves upward to end at another, larger floor hatch. Chuck wriggles through the hatch and emerges in a darkened maintenance closet.

Still wearing his night-vision goggles, he unzips his black ops suit and steps out of it. Underneath, he's dressed in a charcoal-grey blazer and slacks, with a white oxford shirt and blue-and-silver striped tie. His outfit looks surprisingly unwrinkled and sharp, except that his tie is slack and askew. Chuck removes the rest of his equipment, then efficiently folds and squeezes the ops suit and EMP device into a tight bundle. He reaches behind a shelf full of sponges and cleaning products to withdraw a shopping bag he'd hidden there earlier. The night-vision goggles and headset go into the bag, with the folded ops suit on top to conceal them.

For a moment, Chuck listens carefully for footsteps—and, hearing none, emerges from the closet into the back corner of an unoccupied men's lavatory.

Seconds later, he steps out into a crowded passageway and scans his surroundings for Sarah. Unfortunately, it's Cherise Lightfoot who happens to spot him first. A mild river breeze issuing from a nearby porthole keeps her pheromonal perfume from alerting him with enough lead time for an evasive maneuver. She swoops in—calling out to Chuck in her overly smoky voice:

"Well _hel-looo_ there, Charles!"

Cherise snakes an arm around Chuck's back to give him a hug. He returns the hug reluctantly, and as he stumbles out of the older woman's bosomy embrace, she reaches for his loose tie.

"Oh goodness. Did I do that? Let me fix it." Before Chuck can protest, she tightens and straightens his tie—and then notices the fancy shopping bag in his hand.

"So you _did_ manage to go into town after all, you sly boy! What did you buy? Show me!" Cherise chuckles and tries to peer into the bag.

"Umm… _heh_...nothing really, just..."

Caught off guard, Chuck awkwardly yanks the bag out of her reach and jostles it against his leg. The gear hidden inside makes a strange crinkling-plastic noise. Cherise lifts an eyebrow in amusement and curiosity, and paws at the bag again—

—then suddenly, her frisky demeanor evaporates as Sarah's lithe arms materialize to enwrap Chuck from behind. She snuggles up against her husband's back and rests her head in the crook of his neck—meanwhile reaching around with her right hand to help him hold more securely onto the shopping bag.

"Hey, baby." Chuck's offhand greeting belies his grateful relief at the timely assist.

"Hey…Be careful there sweetheart," Sarah pretends to gently chide him. "Don't wanna be showing off our new play-toys!"

She kisses him on the cheek and looks up from his shoulder toward Cherise—juxtaposing a suggestive smile and armor-piercing blue eyes.

"Some things just need to stay private—wouldn't you agree, dear?"

Sarah's reflexive, veiled warning has more of an effect on the former MI-6 operative than she'd anticipated. Cherise's face tenses and she stares back—but in a coolly analytical way—as if recognizing in Sarah, for the first time, a formidable yet familiar kind of threat. It may have been more than Cherise intended to let on, because she immediately composes herself, tosses her head back, and laughs condescendingly.

"Ohh… _ab-so-lutely,"_ she gushes. "And that's _so_ very much in the spirit of this cruise, I might add. It's good to see you've caught on—frankly, I was a bit worried that you two were all work and no play!"

"No danger of that," retorts Chuck, sounding a touch defensive, as Sarah lowers her arms and moves over to his side. They're both still holding onto the shopping bag.

"Speaking of play—where's _your_ naughty playboy gone to?" asks Sarah.

Cherise snorts and points with her chin in the direction of the casino.

"Where else, dear? The craps tables or the bar—or more likely, shuttling between the both of them." She looks at her watch. "I was actually on my way over there to extract him, or bail him out, or whatever tonight calls for."

"Good night then," says Chuck hurriedly.

"Good night, Charles…and Sarah. I hope you _—ha, ha—_ fully enjoy your…toys."

Cherise gives them a smarmy wave—and then turns, swings a smartphone up to her ear, and strides off purposefully toward the casino. Sarah takes Chuck's arm, and they take a few steps in the opposite direction—until Sarah impulsively pulls up and glances back the way they had come.

"Let's follow her!"

"Say what? I thought you were tired!" Confused, Chuck offers no resistance as Sarah swings them both around and starts leading him toward the casino entrance.

"Second wind! Suppose you're right, sweetie, and she is spying—either on us or someone else on board. What if the whole prowling-cougar and dissolute-husband thing are—"

"Just a cover? You mean like our old CIA 'role models,' the Turners?"

_(Quick flashback to Chuck and Sarah contending with double agents Craig and Laura Turner on a mission in L. A. nearly three years earlier….)_

"Exactly. I got a telling vibe from her just now. Just a crazy hunch maybe, but what if she and Grady really are up to something?"

Chuck's eyes light up. "And if so, considering they've been trying to be _our_ best buds all trip long—"

Sarah nods. "Then it'd be in our interest to know what they're doing. Especially if it involves the casino in some way."

"Some surveillance before bed, huh? You're on, babe!" Chuck quickly fishes in the shopping bag, detaches the tiny mike from his headset, and slips it into the breast pocket of his jacket. He and Sarah conceal the bag behind a large colorful floor-to-ceiling banner at the entrance to the La Plata Lorelei.

_(Music: "Dangerous," by Big Data)_

Just inside the door, Chuck and Sarah separate and melt into the chic crowd. They locate Cherise a few steps ahead of them, making her way toward the bar out in the middle of the gaming floor. She's walking much more slowly and casually now, so both Sarah and Chuck are easily able to flank and pass by her undetected.

Grady Lightfoot is at the bar. The Englishman has three young lady servers—exceptionally beautiful even by _Lorelei_ standards—gathered around him. Uncharacteristically, they've abandoned their still-full drink trays on the counter. Grady is flirting quite publicly with all of them at once. He whispers into the ear of one, and then another…everyone laughs…and then Grady lightly swipes one of the young women on her behind. The server jolts in mild surprise but keeps on laughing and smiling.

Cherise is approaching, and she's already near enough to be able to see everything that her husband is doing.

" _Hoo-boy,"_ mutters Chuck. _"I predict ugly."_

But to his surprise, she's perfectly calm and cordial when she joins Grady's impromptu party. She greets each of the servers pleasantly as he introduces them to her in turn, and even appears to jump right in on the lighthearted chatter and laughter.

" _She didn't kill him,"_ Sarah observes. _"That's suspicious right off the bat."_

Chuck moves as close to the scene as he dares, trying—but failing—to catch some snippet of the conversation. Meanwhile, Grady rises on his toes to whisper something in his much taller wife's ear. The Lightfoots look at each other and nod their heads simultaneously in some kind of affirmation. Then Cherise beckons the three young ladies to gather together as she brings out her smartphone again.

The servers giggle and huddle and make coquettish faces: mugging for the camera. Cherise snaps a quick group shot…and then aims her phone more deliberately at the servers' name badges, one at a time. Chuck does a double-take when he realizes what she is doing:

" _She's scanning their QR codes!…gotta be…d'you see that, babe?"_

" _I did. No idea why."_ Sarah is a few meters across the room and has also been watching the entire exchange.

Cherise puts her phone away, takes a firm hold of Grady's hand, and gestures toward the exit. Grady flings a sad glance at the amply stocked drink trays there on the bar…but he winks at the three servers and dutifully leaves with his wife.

Sarah and Chuck retreat deeper into the casino and meet up at the far end.

Excited, Chuck begins, "I'm _dying_ to know what those QR codes are all about!"

"Strange as it all looked," suggests Sarah, "everything the Lightfoots did there at the bar could conceivably be explained by their talent agency business."

"True…but earlier today I saw another patron—an Arab sheik—fiddling with a different girl's badge. It didn't quite register at the time, but he must have been after her QR code too!"

"So maybe it's some kind of rating system?" Sarah rubs her eyes and yawns.

"Or…maybe just hometowns or nicknames or favorite colors," Chuck goes on. "But I doubt Cherise would have any interest in those."

"Good point. Could we pick up that thread _(yawn!)_ in the morning?" Sarah rests her head on her husband's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Chuck. It's just that the excitement's winding down and I'm back to being a tired pregnant lady who just wants to go curl up in her man's arms."

Chuck kisses her forehead. "Sounds good to me." Then—with a snicker—he adds, "Better not forget to retrieve _—heh!—_ our _sex toys_ on the way out!"

Sarah's eyes widen and she lifts her head in a hurry. _"Ssshh!"_ Behind Chuck's back, a slim brunette woman in a business suit has just appeared.

" _Pardon me?"_

Seriously mortified, Chuck spins around to face the woman. But she shows no sign of having understood his quip, even if she heard it.

"Excuse me. Herr Carmichael? It is Herr Carmichael, is it not?"

The woman has a La Plata name badge, but no QR code. She appears to be in her early thirties. Chuck quickly recognizes her, and relaxes.

"You're the casino manager, aren't you?"

 _"Ja,_ my name is Karin Klemeyer. I saw you and Frau Carmichael standing over here and wished to introduce myself. It is a pleasure!" She smiles and shakes both of their hands. "I make it a point to meet all of our _Premier Platinum Club_ members."

"Well, it's a real pleasure for us too," Chuck replies.

"Are you enjoying yourselves?" Klemeyer asks. "The accommodations, do they suit your needs? Is there anything else we can do to please you?"

"Yes…yes, for sure…and I don't believe so," Sarah answers her.

Klemeyer hands Chuck a business card. "My private cell number. Should you have need of any services, please call me—day or night."

After the manager departs, Sarah looks quizzically at her husband.

"We haven't been made…have we?"

"Nope."

"So what's this about _Premier Platinum Club?_ When did _we_ become high rollers?"

Chuck folds his arms and puts on a self-satisfied expression.

"I left a little calling card behind when I hacked in this morning. Another test. Let's see how long it takes 'em to figure it out."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Chuck in any legally binding or commercially viable sense.

**Third day, morning, on the meandering Rhine**

_(Buuu-WHOOOONK!)_

The _Geliebten Lorelei_ sounds its big steam-powered horn as it glides past a massive restored medieval stone castle that rises from a swampy plot on the right bank of the river.

Lingering in bed, Sarah moans unhappily at the harsh sound and rolls over on her stomach, while ducking her still-drowsy head underneath her pillow. Beside her, a wide-awake Chuck takes advantage of the opportunity to plant a row of gentle little kisses up the length of her spine. As he approaches the back of his wife's neck she moans again for a different reason. She wiggles her shoulder blades in delight. Chuck smiles and bends down again to start kissing in the opposite direction.

On the edge of his vision he catches a quick glimpse of the monolithic riverside castle through the porthole window, and he can faintly hear Captain Stübing using the exterior public-address system to narrate to whatever early risers are enjoying the view on the upper deck. His lecture begins in German and switches to English:

"… _der Lussheim Castle, first of zuh many castles ve vill see on der zecond haff off our trip. Zis iss a peculiar plaze for a castle, und der legend zays it vas built atop zuh ruins off three previous castles zat sank into der schvamp! Who knows…_ ha-ha _…"_

The Captain's jovial narrative is just enough of a distraction to Chuck that his serial kissing slows down near the small of Sarah's back. She reaches out to poke him in the shoulder and redirect him to the task at hand.

 

* * *

**At the same time, high on the castle wall…**

Side by side, with the newly risen sun warming their backs and steaming cups of Jacobs Krönung coffee warming their hands, Morgan and Alex are looking down on the passing _Lorelei_ and taking in the panorama of the entire Upper Rhine Plain. At this early hour they are the first tourists to ascend the wall.

All around them, the awakening landscape is tabletop-flat but lovely, with emerald-green vineyards and tree-lined country lanes extending out from both banks of the river toward distant blue-shadowed hills.

Enchanted by the scenery, Alex sighs in delight and snuggles up against Morgan.

"This has been a fun job," she purrs. "Doesn't feel that much like work—even with the long hours."

"Well, you and I've been on our own so much, it's almost like a vacation for us. Almost."

Alex nods. "We travel well together. That's a good sign."

"I was thinking the same thing."

"And…I'm proud of how hard and well you've been working, giving Chuck and Sarah all the backup they need—pretty much 24/7. You know, you _might_ just have a terrific future ahead of you, Morgan Grimes."

He cocks his head and asks her, "Don't you mean… _we_ might?"

Alex turns her face toward his. Her eyes are dreamy and her lower lip is quavering a little. Morgan pulls her close and kisses her emphatically. She starts to reciprocate—but then giggles, breaks the kiss, and points downward at the cruise ship. A small cluster of passengers on the deck are all looking up at them: pointing, waving, and laughing.

Alex and Morgan wave right back.

"Do you see Sarah and Chuck?"

"Nope." Morgan taps the iPhone in his pocket. "Tracer signal has 'em still in their cabin."

"Right. Mornings _have_ been kind of rough on poor Sarah lately," notes Alex sympathetically.

Morgan takes his lady's hand in both of his and shakes it excitedly. "I can't wait 'til they're up…so we can tell 'em that you tracked down Jeff and Lester!"

 

* * *

**While back aboard the _Lorelei…_**

Chuck's playful little smooches up and down Sarah's back had their effect. By now, she has slipped her blonde bed head out from under her pillow and is lying fully awake on her side—the better for her and Chuck to entwine their limbs and share increasingly steamy kisses and roaming caresses.

An opened bottle of ginger-root capsules and a half-empty glass of water on a bedside table offer a silent and subtle explanation for why this latest morning in Sarah's early first trimester doesn't seem as rough on her as Alex imagines—or, by extension, on Chuck.

The boat horn sounds _(Buuu-WHOOOONK!)_ once again, but neither of them notices it this time.

 

* * *

**Two hours later**

Sarah and Chuck emerge from their cabin, smartly dressed in light-colored business-casual attire once again, and head for the dining room. By now it's brunch time. They find the restaurant packed with patrons, as most of their fellow passengers are night owls. But their favorite window-side table at the far side of the room happens to be unoccupied, so Chuck asks the hostess to seat them there.

While waiting for a server—they all seem especially harried as there's a big crowd in the place—Chuck quickly consults the menu, makes his choice, and then opens a small laptop he'd brought with him. He's working on the first draft of the final report that C. I. will submit to La Plata Global Gaming to complete their cybersecurity audit of the floating casino.

Sarah, looking ravenous, spends more time on the menu, but—exemplary protector, business partner, and wife that she is—also keeps watch on their surroundings, in case anyone should take undue interest in what Chuck is doing. She also glances at his screen occasionally, knowing he'll eventually ask for her advice in choice of wording, or help in filling in details.

No matter how many waitresses and waiters are working in Chuck and Sarah's vicinity, it always seems to be Vama who comes to take care of them. Chuck quietly closes his laptop as she bustles up to their table with the beverage cart and an eager smile, and exchanges pleasantries: in the Romani language with Sarah, and in accented English with Chuck. She pours them coffee and herbal tea and then picks up a tablet from the cart to take their orders.

"What will I like to bring you this morning, Frau Sarah and Herr Charles?"

Sarah immediately replies, "Kippers and fried eggs—over easy—with braised kale and a buttered toasted _Semmel."_ She runs her finger down the menu to the dessert section. "And…a side of strawberry ice cream, please."

Vama's eyebrows arch and she chuckles softly as she takes down the order.

"What can I say?" Sarah quickly adds, lest the young server deduce her condition. "I've got some peculiar tastes. I mean…just look at the man I married…!"

She points at Chuck who—right on cue—feigns innocent surprise, taps his chest with outspread fingers, and mouths: _Who, me?_

The exchange makes Vama laugh outright. "And for— _hehh!—_ you, Herr Charles?"

"I'll just have the potato omelet, _Leberwurst,_ and fruit…thanks."

Vama picks up the menus and is about to wheel the cart away, when Chuck reaches out and nudges her on the arm. "One more thing?"

"Yes, Herr Charles?"

He points to her name badge. "I couldn't help but notice those QR codes all of you are wearing. What are those for?"

" _Oh!"_ the young Romani server blurts out, surprised by the question. "You were not told of these, sir? Those codes are so we are judged."

"Judged?" asks Sarah with a mystified look. "Do you mean you're being tested?"

Vama shakes her head excitedly. _"Arvah_ —yes—Frau Sarah—I do mean! Myself and some others are new with this cruise line. Herr Taschenratte says we are on the probation. So we are always being judged by the passengers for our service."

"I get it," Chuck says. "Instead of filling out a comment card, I can just scan your code and rate you online!" He pulls out his iPhone. "Can I try it now? I promise to give you straight A grades."

"Yes…" Vama answers hesitantly. "But we are never allowed to _ask_ the passengers for that."

"It's okay, Vama. I'm doing this on my own accord." Chuck aims his phone at her badge and scans her QR code. He looks down at the screen, enters a few commands—and then gapes at the result in puzzlement.

"That's strange. It read the code but all I got was a 404—"

" _May I assist you with something?"_ asks Herr Taschenratte himself—who has just appeared, unexpectedly, behind Vama. The server hunkers down nervously, and wheels her cart away from the table without another word. Solicitously, Sarah watches her scurry off to the kitchen.

"Maybe," says Chuck, holding up his phone. "I was just trying to give Vama a good review for her excellent service…but it won't let me."

Taschenratte smiles knowingly, and in a low voice says, "Ah, so! That is because you and your wife…you are…well, you are not exactly classified as paying passengers on this voyage. Is that not accurate, Herr Carmichael?"

"Captain Stubing—uh, _Stübing_ —shared that little bit of information with you, then?" asks Chuck sharply, as he stares with displeasure at the nattily dressed ship's purser.

"He did, sir…but you should have no worries. This was prudent of the _Kapitän,_ because even on his own vessel he cannot be in all places at all times." Taschenratte pats his chest proudly. "And _I_ am—how you Americans say?—his right-hand man."

"We trust you've not passed this on to anyone else?" Sarah asks, her tone as critical as her husband's. "Not to, for example…Karin Klemeyer in the casino?"

"Of course I have not," replies Taschenratte with mild indignation. "Only the _Kapitän_ and I know the real reason why you both are aboard the _Lorelei."_

"All right then," says Chuck, sounding only marginally mollified. "Was there something in particular you came to see us about?"

"Ah, yes, there is." Taschenratte reaches into his suit jacket and takes out a small, ornately decorated envelope. "On behalf of _Kapitän_ Stübing, I would like to offer an invitation." He hands the envelope to Sarah, who swiftly opens it with her bread knife. The envelope holds an invitation card addressed to _Herr und Frau Charles Carmichael._

"It is the _Kapitän's_ personal tradition," the purser continues, "to host a small private midnight gathering at the midpoint of each cruise. He would be honored if you would be among his guests on the bridge deck at that time. There will be cocktails and dancing."

"I'm sure we'll want to be there," says Sarah, trying to sound and act appreciative.

"Please give our thanks to the captain," adds Chuck in a similar tone.

"Very good," Taschenratte replies with a wily grin. "Especially since this is to be your last night on board the _Geliebten Lorelei…_ no?" He gives them a little bow of his head. "Please forgive the intrusion—and do enjoy your meal."

Two steps away from Chuck and Sarah's table, he turns back around and says:

"And I will make sure that young Vama receives a high review on your behalf."

Taschenratte walks away—and Sarah and Chuck barely have a minute to process what happened before Vama comes rolling back with their food.

"Huh—talk about fast," Sarah observes as Vama lifts the covers from the shiny stainless-steel dishes and sets them out on the table.

"Well sure," joshes Chuck. "Now that _she_ knows _we_ know we can grade her!"

Vama's presentation distracts Chuck and Sarah just enough that they don't see Pjeter Malota walking by, a few tables away, carrying a large domed platter in the direction of the kitchen. There's a tiny lens embedded in the dome on the side that faces the Bartowskis. Pjeter moves into position just as Vama finishes setting down the places and backs away from the table. The lens silently blinks—once, twice….

 

* * *

**Early that evening, on the north side of bustling, cosmopolitan Mannheim**

The white Sprinter van moves with the sluggish traffic on the Kurpfalz Bridge across the Neckar River, a straight and narrow grassy-banked tributary of the Rhine that cleaves the sprawling city. The Neckarstadt neighborhood just ahead mixes classic and futuristic German architecture. Most prominent are three identical high-rise apartment towers, like cylindrical beehives in a row, which extend along the waterfront to meet the bridge ramps.

But right at that junction—toward which Alex and Morgan are headed—stands a picturesque ivy-draped six-story stone building with a prominent gambrel roof. Colorful posters that advertise different music groups and other performers hang over the ivy along the river-side wall of the building. Clusters of revelers, mostly young, sit drinking coffee or beer around tables beneath green umbrellas out front, as other customers and servers circulate in and out. Morgan grins in anticipation as Alex parks the van in an adjacent garage.

Moments later, they hold hands and pause in front of the entrance, looking up at a red-and-white banner that reads CAFÉ-BAR MITTLEREWACHE. Recorded rock music is playing inside the building, barely audible over a mix of boisterous conversation and laughter. A hand-lettered sandwich-board sign standing out on the sidewalk boldly advertises the night's scheduled entertainment:

HEUTE Ab 21 Uhr

_Live-Pop-Musik! mit_

HEI _ß_ ENEISEN

TROMPETE HASSER

STINKENDE KÄSE

Und

Jefster!

"Uh-oh," says Morgan with concern. "Not only bottom billing—they even misspelled their name."

"Doesn't bode all that well," adds Alex. "Guess we'll see. What time is it?"

"It's just seven-thirty…uh, 19:30 _Uhr_. Got a bit of time to kill. Maybe dinner?"

Alex sniffs the air. "Some good smells are coming from right inside here. No need to go anywhere else, I'd say. And maybe we can snag a good table for the show."

They head inside. Just past the doorway, in a vestibule leading to the main part of the café-bar, a folding table has been set up along the wall. The table is covered by a bright blue cloth emblazoned with the label _SCHMECKTGUT WURST! Unsere Wurst ist am besten!_ in large white letters, and holds several large chafing dishes.

Behind the table, a tall, slender young woman with golden-blonde braids, a low-cut white blouse, and a short floral-blue peasant skirt is beaming as she passes out free samples: different kinds of plump sausages, piping-hot on crusty buns.

"Mmmm," says Alex. "Maybe we don't need to go farther than this—huh, Morgan?"

But she gets no response—because Morgan has frozen in his tracks and is blatantly staring at the young blonde. Alex elbows him. _"Hey! That's rude!"_

" _Huh?_ Oh…oh, sorry, babe." Morgan's face flushes. "Just a bit of _déja vu_. That girl looks an awful lot like Sarah back in the day…her first cover ID at the Weinerlicious, right after she and Chuck met."

"All right—in that case, you're forgiven." Alex leads him over to the table. The blonde wurst-lady smiles sunnily at them both.

"Ummm… _guten abend,"_ Morgan mumbles—while looking awkwardly down at a list of handy German phrases on the iPhone he's trying to hide in his hand. _"Wir…wir müssen—_ I mean, _wir möchten—"_

"That's okay," interjects the wurst-lady. "I speak English. Would you both care for a free snack? We have _Knackwurst, Weisswurst, Bratwurst_ …many varieties. All are completely natural meat products, with no fillers or artificial flavors. And gluten-free, of course!"

"Yum! Thank you," says Alex with enthusiasm. "Everything smells so wonderful—so I'll just have whatever one you recommend."

The young woman takes a juicy _Weisswurst_ in a pair of tongs and lays it gently into a bun, then slathers on brown mustard.

"Are the both of you staying for the _Pop-Musik_ show tonight?" she asks.

"We are."

"Ah, very good! You know, Schmecktgut Wurst is the official sponsor for these bands. They will go on tour all around Germany very soon. Tonight is a special preview—you are here at the right time!"

The blonde wurst-lady hands the _Weisswurst_ -on-a-bun, wrapped in a napkin, to Alex, then looks questioningly at Morgan. He points to the chafing dish full of grilled _Bratwursts_. She extracts one with her tongs and prepares it for him.

"Here you go, sir."

"Thank you!" Morgan replies. "So your company is sponsoring all the bands? That's including _Jeffster!,_ right?"

"Yes, that is correct. Are you their fans?"

Morgan shrugs. "Sort of. I suppose. We heard of 'em back in the United States. That's where we're from, by the way."

"She probably figured _that_ out already, dear," comments Alex—before taking another bite of her sausage.

"That's good," the wurst-lady avers. "Because they are still new here in Mannheim. I don't think they have very many fans yet."

 

* * *

**Later, on the _Geliebten Lorelei,_ still kilometers upstream from Mannheim**

_The elegant vessel slices through the dark waters of the Rhine on a steady course, slipping past the shadowy towers of another ancient riverside castle. The city lights of Mannheim are just discernible on the flat horizon ahead…._

And on the promenade deck:

_(Music: "Sohn der Leere," by Die Ärzte)_

" _The point is six, ladies! Gentlemen! Place your bets! Plenty good action goin' down!"_

Inside the La Plata Lorelei floating casino, Chuck and Sarah have joined an animated, expensively dressed crowd playing for high stakes at one of the elegant craps tables.

" _Yo-leven! Our shooter's getting hot! Field bets pay…"_

The German stickman running the table is speaking English and doing his best to affect a Hollywood-style gangster accent. The dealers on either side of him, and the boxman in charge of the bank, are all highly attractive women with towering hairdos. Together, they lend by intent a bit of _faux_ -Vegas glitter to the otherwise very dignified and very European scene.

" _That's a hard four—Little Joe! Little Joe and on we go!"_

Sarah is her typical stunning self in her favorite dark-blue formal dress, and Chuck is at his most dapper in a very Bondian coal-black tuxedo with white dress shirt, black bow tie, and cummerbund.

" _There's your nina! Winner, winner, chicken dinner!"_

Sarah is drinking ginger ale on the rocks, subtly gussied up by an accommodating bartender to look exactly like a whiskey sour. Chuck sips a dark German beer from a narrow-waisted glass: doing little more than keeping his lips moist, so he can keep his mind sharp.

" _Here's the come-out roll—whoops! Seven-out, shooter out. Great while it lasted, eh friend?"_

Grady Lightfoot is playing at the same table, at the end opposite from where Sarah and Chuck are positioned. He has chilled straight vodka in his glass, and he's having it refilled at a steady pace. Grady's drinking doesn't seem to be affecting his skill or his luck, as the stack of chips in front of him is substantial and growing. Every so often—in between placing bets, signaling for a refill on his vodka, and groping the servers—he sends a friendly wink or nod toward the Carmichaels, or hoists his glass to them in salute.

The stickman keeps up his distinctive patter as the game proceeds.

" _Ten…ten the hard way!_ Fraülein's _best friend,_ ho ho! _You knew that, didn'cha sir?"_

With each friendly gesture across the table, Grady has another opportunity to sneak a peek at what Chuck and Sarah are doing. Their winnings are increasing even faster than his!

The dice make slow clockwise orbits around the table, passing from one shooter to the next. Each time they come to Chuck, he showily shakes them back and forth inside his upraised right fist, while lowering his eyes toward the green felt layout of the table surface. It seems like a silly superstitious habit—but it keeps everyone's eyes on his hand, and not on his face, when he triggers an Intersect flash.

After each flash, the dice feel different—more _controllable_ —in Chuck's hand.

This time, his initial throw—his come-out roll—takes the required bounce off the far side of the table and lands on the layout with a three and a two showing.

" _Fever five fever! Point is five ladies an' gentlemen! You may place your bets!"_

Sarah already has several hundred euros riding on the _Pass_ line: betting against the house that Chuck will throw another five before he throws a seven. Now she slides fresh chips across the felt to back them up: "taking the odds" on her _Pass_ -line bet for a chance at a much bigger payout. Sarah's been taking incrementally greater odds each time that Chuck's been the shooter. Each time, she's won.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the tall brunette base dealer on her left side says apologetically. "I'm afraid the house maximum is twenty-to-one."

Sarah frowns. "Really? Well that sure sucks."

"Maybe we're done here, babe," suggests Chuck.

"It's all right," interrupts Karin Klemeyer, the casino manager, who's standing nearby.

" _She's had eyes on us for the last fifteen minutes,"_ Sarah whispers in Chuck's ear.

" _Good,"_ he whispers back.

Klemeyer approaches the base dealer and speaks quietly to her.

"Herr and Frau Carmichael are _Premier Platinum_ members _._ Frau Carmichael may take whatever odds she would like."

"Aww, that's so sweet! Thank you!" Sarah takes fifty-to-one odds.

Klemeyer takes a step back from the action at the table, and looks across the room to an imposing, barrel-chested Black man in a suit jacket that marks him as a casino employee. The man nods very slightly and raises a smartphone to his ear.

The stickman pushes the dice across the layout and back to Chuck, who shakes them in his hand again. Then, with the Intersect subliminally influencing his motions, he throws a hard eight: a pair of fours. Several gamblers cheer, having won high-risk, high-return place bets on eight. Sarah quietly increases her odds on her _Pass_ line bet to a hundred-to-one.

When all the bets are down and Chuck gets the dice back again, he glances up at the "eye in the sky" camera positioned over the table—as if challenging it—then throws a four and a one: another easy fever five.

Across the table, Grady Lightfoot whistles softly and lifts his glass again.

Sarah simply smiles, as the brunette base dealer dispassionately ladles chips to her. It's a nice win though not a huge score—but everyone around the table can see that the Carmichaels are on a hot streak.

The barrel-chested man comes over to Klemeyer and mutters something in her ear. She looks grimly at Chuck and Sarah.

Chuck has the dice in his right hand once more, and is just about to throw a new come-out roll, when Klemeyer calmly taps him on his right arm.

"Excuse me, Herr Carmichael. Your game is over. I must ask you and your wife to accompany me to my office immediately."

"Can't it wait?" Chuck asks, faking surprise and annoyance, and still rattling the dice loudly in his hand.

"No. Right now, please. I must insist."

The barrel-chested casino employee appears on Chuck's other side and points with his chin in the direction of Klemeyer's office.

Sarah pounces at the table to scoop up her chips—but the tall brunette base dealer steps nimbly in front of her and folds her arms. Sarah glares at the woman for a moment…then snorts haughtily and tromps off behind her seemingly chagrined husband as the barrel-chested man escorts him away from the table.

Eyebrow cocked, Grady Lightfoot watches the whole incident transpire—and then, he shrugs and resumes playing.

 

* * *

**Meanwhile, in the café-bar in Mannheim**

All the tables in front of the music stage are packed, and patrons are three- and four-deep around the bar. Alex and Morgan have gotten themselves a hi-top table in the center of the room, with a good view of the stage but just far enough back that they won't be visible to the performers.

Alex reaches beneath the table to squeeze Morgan's knee in excitement as the lights dim, the crowd noise crescendoes, and the master of ceremonies appears on the stage.

" _Zunächst…von Los An-ge-les…begrüssen sie…JEFF-STER!"_

The MC melts into the backstage as Jeff Barnes and Lester Patel come forward, waving their hands in the air. They're greeted by optimistic applause and even a few whoops—but the overall noise level in the room immediately drops by at least twenty decibels.

" _It's really them!"_ yells Morgan.

 _Jeffster!_ doesn't look to have changed much if at all. Lester and Jeff are even wearing white shirts and black trousers strongly reminiscent of Nerd Herd uniforms.

" _Good evening, Mannheim!"_ shrieks Lester, raising his cordless microphone high. Then the arm comes down—Jeff wrangles his keytar—and _Jeffster!_ opens with a serviceable cover of the Duran Duran hit song _Río_ :

" _Moving on the floor now babe you're a bird of paradise…_

_Cherry ice-cream smile, I suppose it's very niiiiice…."_

Somebody sitting at the table next to Alex and Morgan's groans loudly.

A few patrons are listening politely—but all around the room, many of them are returning to their prior conversations, looking up at the _Fussball_ matches on the flatscreens over the bar, or showing new interest in their half-eaten dinners.

 _Jeffster!_ notices the ebbing crowd support; in fact, they seem to have expected it. Their playing is not bad technically, but their bodily movements on stage are half-hearted, and their facial expressions border on the stoic.

"This is _not_ awesome," Morgan comments with disappointment.

"I think I see the problem," Alex replies. "This place is full of Millennials—but Jeff and Lester are still stuck in the Eighties!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Chuck is not among my possessions.
> 
> There is a SOUNDTRACK for this episode (as in the actual series). Music cues are embedded in the text, and you can listen while you read! The soundtrack is available on 8tracks dot com; just search on the tag "anthropocene."

**At the café-bar in Mannheim…as _Jeffster!_ 's set nears its end**

Barely one verse into the third lackluster Eighties cover song in a row—this one, Wang Chung's _Everybody Have Fun Tonight_ :

" _But now the music's on—_

_Oh baby dance with me…yeah!"_

…Morgan loses it! He throws down the last of his second pint of Eichbaum Hefeweizen beer, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and without any warning, jumps dramatically from his chair.

" _Somebody's gotta go snap 'em out of it!"_ he bellows, pointing toward the stage and nearly startling Alex right out of _her_ seat.

"You don't mean _—wait, Morgan—_ you're gonna go up there?"

"Why not?"

"But Chuck said—"

" _Rip it up, move down_

_Rip it up, move it down to the ground…._

… _Everybody have fun tonight!"_

"He said it was _our call_ whether to make contact or not! And Jeff and Lester need our help real bad about now—that's what I say anyway!"

"Well I'm just wondering if it's _you_ or the _beer_ saying that—are you certain you're not just going to make it all much worse?"

"Just look around, baby _—nobody's_ having fun tonight!"

" _But, Morgan—"_

Alex's last plea comes too late. Morgan takes off like a small fuzzy cannonball—headlong into the cluster of crowded tables between him and the stage. Fortunately, most of the patrons already have their backs turned to the performance, so people directly in Morgan's path can see him coming and get out of his way.

" _Everybody have fun tonight,_

_Everybody Wang Chung tonight!"_

He jukes, weaves—and reaches the stage almost before he realizes it. The bouncers who are supposed to be guarding it are absent…probably gone for a break, once it was clear that nobody would be rushing the stage for _this_ band.

" _Deep in the world tonight,_

_Our hearts beat safe and sound._

_I'll hold you so close…MORGAN!?"_

The music stops cold and Lester and Jeff stare incredulously down at their old bearded buddy, who's standing before them with a sugar-eating grin. All at once the large room goes uncannily quiet—and outside in the adjacent alleyway, two bearish bouncers hurriedly crush out their cigarettes and race back into the building.

" _What the hell,"_ Morgan says with a shrug, and clambers up onto the stage. Kind of stunned and kind of delighted, Jeff and Lester greet him with hugs and backslaps.

"What're you _doing_ here, man?" asks Jeff.

"Chuck sent us!"

" _Chuck!"_ cries Lester excitedly. "So he _did_ get my distress message!"

" _What?"_ Jeff fires back.

"I'll…uh…explain later—"

A few grumbles and hisses begin to emanate from the audience.

"Never mind all that now!" Morgan insists. He has one eye on the angry-looking bouncers making their way toward the stage.

"Don't you guys realize you're _dying_ up here? You've _gotta_ have more than that—you gotta _show_ 'em something better!"

"We're…doing the best we can…" mumbles Lester—but so hesitantly that it's clear even _he_ doesn't believe it.

Morgan snaps his fingers. "I've _got_ it! The Pacific Concert Hall—you remember that—you've gotta channel _that_ energy again! Just imagine there's some deadly danger out there in the crowd…and _you're_ the only ones who can hold it back!"

He gestures toward the approaching bouncers and mutters, "'Cause maybe there really _is_ something dangerous…."

"But…but…"

"Just _do_ it!" Morgan exhorts his friends. "Don't think—just play! Go _kick! Some! Ass!"_

He jumps off the stage just as the pissed-off bouncers arrive to take vengeance for being caught off duty. One of them lunges straight at him!

But with a terrified little cry of _"Eeeep,"_ Morgan instinctively hunkers down, covering his face with one hand and shielding his groin with the other—a textbook "Morgan"—which causes the attacking bouncer to arc right over him and crash into his partner! Both of the big men topple spectacularly to the ground, knocking over nearby tables and triggering a groundswell of laughter _._

Reacting quickly, Morgan slips away into the cover of the amused crowd before either of the bouncers gets a good look at him.

While up on stage—given a moment of respite by Morgan's struggle with the bouncers—Lester and Jeff look searchingly at each other. Then they nod solemnly, set their jaws, and…

…Jeff breaks into a well-known lugubrious grunge-metal riff on his keytar…while in an unexpected but convincingly raspy growl, Lester belts out:

" _Come…as you are, as you were, as I waaant you to be_

_As a friend, as a friend, as an old en-e-my…."_

Safely back at his table, keeping a low profile by huddling close to his astonished—but inwardly proud—girlfriend, Morgan smiles in satisfaction.

"Nirvana?" Alex asks him.

"Uh huh—it might just work for this crowd too…."

All around the room, the side conversations abruptly tail off, eyes pull away from the soccer broadcast, chairs are turned back to face the stage…hands start clapping in time—

" _And I swear that I don't have a gun_

_No I don't have a gun,_

_No I don't have a gun…."_

Because _Jeffster!_ is indeed, and for the first time tonight, _kicking ass_ up there!

 

* * *

**A little later, in the La Plata Lorelei floating casino**

The "eye in the sky" captured all the necessary information: Chuck and Sarah's whispered exchanges of when and how much to bet. Sarah's measured _Pass_ -line wagering and odds-taking. Chuck's unorthodox, overdramatic style as a shooter. And most of all, their steady pattern of winning—virtually from the time they stepped up to the craps table.

"Hmmm," Karin Klemeyer murmurs, idly scratching her chin as she studies the video playing on a flatscreen on the wall of her antique-wood-paneled office. The office is surprisingly peaceful for being just a few steps away from the noisy milieu of the casino.

She's sitting in a plush, burgundy-colored upholstered chair behind her ample teakwood desk—while Sarah and Chuck occupy much less opulent seats on the other side. Her quietly imposing barrel-chested associate stands guard at the doorway.

"You've had a remarkable evening," she continues—trying to cajole either of her involuntary guests to say something…to say _anything_.

But Chuck and Sarah have been frustratingly silent since they came into her office. They sit placidly, almost without expression; all they do is glance at each other every so often. The young—and apparently inexperienced—casino manager is becoming irritated.

"Okay, let's try _this_ , then," she mutters, and taps out a new command on a touchpad set into the top of her desk. The video changes from color to greyscale. Two numbers—one of them a percentage—appear on the screen, displayed on either side of Chuck and Sarah.

Klemeyer points to the figure on the left: 1.41%.

"I'm sure you know that is the normal house edge on a _Pass_ -line bet."

When Sarah bends forward to place more chips and take odds on her initial bet, the figure changes to 0.85%.

"Even a novice at craps would know how to decrease the house edge a mite by taking the odds," Klemeyer notes philosophically. "So this is nothing out of the ordinary. Not yet. Unless—as we do—you focus on the number on the right side!"

That figure reads 1.00. But each time Chuck is seen throwing the dice, the number decreases a bit: first to 0.91, then 0.86…0.73…0.66. Chuck and Sarah attentively—and still silently—watch the trend as the replay of their game proceeds.

Klemeyer rises from her chair and nods righteously at the screen.

"That's an innovation of ours—a probability engine in the video stream. It tells us the real-time likelihood that any given roll of the dice is truly random."

Sarah cracks a smile and nudges Chuck with her elbow.

"Whatta ya know—somebody _did_ listen to you!"

Chuck smiles back at his wife.

"What do you mean, Frau Carmichael?" demands Klemeyer. Receiving no answer, she grits her teeth and impatiently taps on her touchpad again. The video recording races forward to Chuck's final winning roll, just before she stepped in to stop him.

The number on the right side of the screen now reads 0.0001.

"You rolled the dice a total of 47 times this evening. More than enough times for us to be mathematically certain your shooting was anything but random."

"What are you trying to say, Ms. Klemeyer?" asks Chuck evenly.

"That you and your wife—if in fact, this woman really _is_ your wife—"

Sarah instantly fires an irate glance at Klemeyer—and a distinct tremble infiltrates the casino manager's voice:

"—w-well…what I m-mean…you're…you're _cheats!"_

Chuck laughs out loud. "We used _your_ dice—and I'm sure you inspected them thoroughly afterwards. We followed the rules. How can you think we cheated?"

Klemeyer's confidence floods back, and a gleam in her eyes says: _Gotcha!_

She enters another command. On the flatscreen, the video from the casino blinks out, replaced by two digital dossiers: one bearing a photo of Chuck's face and the other a photo of Sarah's. In large red block letters, the word _FALSCH_ —"fake"—flashes across both files.

"I _know_ you cheated, because your _Premier Platinum_ membership proved to be a forgery! Someone hacked into our database and created false identities for you both. Perhaps it was _you_ even…?"

Chuck shrugs his shoulders and looks at Klemeyer sheepishly.

"Your falsified status," she goes on, "privileged you to exceed the house limits on odds. With that and your…let us say _extraordinary_ dice control, you two were poised to make a considerable killing over the course of the night. Leveraging our generous line of credit to steal from us. That's quite impressive, my dear Charles and Sarah. Also quite brazen."

"Quite," echoes Chuck, as he and Sarah get to their feet. The barrel-chested enforcer takes a step toward them and dangles his arms, ready to act if called upon.

"Do you have anything to say before I have you both thrown in jail?" Klemeyer asks.

Chuck grins at her and—inexplicably—replies, "You passed."

" _Excuse me?"_

He points to the retro-look telephone on her desk. "Call your regional manager—that Canadian guy, I forgot his name—and ask him about Charles and Sarah Carmichael."

Frowning, muddled all over again, Klemeyer hesitates.

"Go on," says Sarah. "We'll wait."

Klemeyer reluctantly picks up the handset with two fingers, as if it were coated in some unpleasant substance. She speed-dials her supervisor. Her brief exchange with him is nearly inaudible to Sarah and Chuck, but they can clearly read her crestfallen expression.

After she hangs up, Klemeyer _plops_ back down in her chair and buries her face in her hands.

"I would have hoped," she moans, "that corporate would give me a _little_ time, at least, to get settled before they unleashed their 'cyber-whisperer' on me!"

" _The legend grows,"_ Sarah whispers playfully in her husband's ear.

Chuck pats Klemeyer's shoulder, intending to reassure her.

"Don't worry, Ms. K. It was all a setup and you did really well. Our cybersecurity audit report will be strongly positive. Almost completely positive, matter of fact."

The casino manager lifts her head. _"Almost?"_

"Yeah, almost," says Chuck. "There's just that issue with your firewall. Your systems would be more or less transparent to any skilled hacker. But you're not alone—the entire ship is vulnerable. We'll have to have a word with Captain Stübing next."

Very softly, Sarah chuckles at hearing him finally get the pronunciation right.

Klemeyer's eyes narrow. "So the _Kapitän_ is aware of your business on board?"

"Uh huh. Why—is that going to cause a—"

"No! Oh no, no…it is no problem. No problem!" Klemeyer bolts back up from her seat and extends her right hand—trembling ever so slightly—to Chuck.

"Are you all right?" he asks as they shake hands.

"Of course! And I apologize to you both for my brusqueness earlier." She smiles awkwardly at Chuck and Sarah. "But you had me completely fooled."

"That's what we do for a living," says Sarah as she steps up to shake Klemeyer's hand. "And you were doing _your_ job. No apology is necessary."

" _Danke schön._ I am certain that your report to our headquarters will help the La Plata Lorelei operate much more…um, securely…in the future."

Still looking and sounding very unsettled, Klemeyer glances self-consciously down at her wristwatch.

" _Ach,_ it is so late—and you must be going to the _Kapitän's_ party tonight, _ja?_ I must not keep you here one second longer!"

"Well then…thank you," replies Chuck most genially. "And have a good evening." He takes Sarah's arm and leads her from the office, past Klemeyer's barrel-chested associate—who nods respectfully as they pass.

As soon as Chuck and Sarah have departed, Klemeyer shoos her associate out of the office and yanks the phone handset up to her ear again. Her face reddens angrily as she yells at the person on the other end of the call:

" _Warum zum Teufel hast du mir nicht sagen—du Dumpfbacke?"_

(Subtitled: Why in hell didn't you _tell_ me—you dumb-ass?)

 

* * *

**Later still, at the Captain's party on the command deck**

A dozen or so elite couples have gathered in a private room aft of the bridge for drinks, dancing, and conversation, courtesy of Captain Stübing. At the moment, Chuck is making small talk with the Captain in one corner of the room. Both gentlemen have their eyes on the beautiful Sarah, who is a few steps away and chatting with an Emirati couple in their traditional attire: his a flowing sand-tan _kandura_ and headscarf, and hers a loose-fitting black _hijab_ dress that reveals only her face.

In another part of the room, a techno-string quartet is playing unusual but very danceable rock waltzes, one after another. Some couples—among them Grady and Cherise Lightfoot—have been waltzing more or less continuously since the party started.

"Where have you been hiding these guys?" Chuck asks the Captain. "Down in the hold somewhere? They're really good and I don't remember hearing them play before tonight."

Captain Stübing—once again outfitted in his gleaming white full-dress mariner's uniform—laughs at the question; his rotund belly bounces.

"I bring zem on board after Lussheim— _effry_ cruise—chust for zem to play at my mitt-course party. Do you enjoy zuh valtz, Herr Carmichael?"

Chuck nods. "I like any kind of dancing—as long as it's with my lovely wife—so we'll probably take a turn or two out on the floor. But first I wanted to let you know that we've finished our work on board. We'll be leaving the boat on schedule, tomorrow morning in Mannheim."

" _Ja?_ Und did all go vell?"

"Yes…for the most part." Chuck looks around to make sure that nobody is watching him too closely—then slips an iPad mini from his inner jacket pocket. "But I really need to show you _this_ …sir."

Chuck taps a few quick commands on the iPad screen, and then passes it to the Captain. The screen now displays a high-definition navigable view of the night-shrouded bridge of the _Geliebten Lorelei_ in real time: the glowing, multicolored diode lights and digital readouts on the control panels, and the shadowy figure of a ship's mate at the wheel, gazing straight ahead at the dark Rhine and piloting the vessel straight on.

Stubing _gasps_ audibly. "Is zat _my_ bridge?"

"It is. You command a truly 21st-century riverboat, sir. All of its principal systems, from navigation to propulsion to climate control, are fully digital and tightly networked."

Chuck gently draws his iPad out of the grasp of the thunderstruck Captain and slips it back into his jacket—then points to the breast pocket of the Captain's uniform, where an oblong bulge hints at the presence of a hand-held smart device.

"I'm guessing _that_ gives you autonomous control and override capabilities—even when you aren't physically present on the bridge. Am I correct, sir?"

" _Ja…ja…Das…das ist richtig."_ Stübing is flummoxed enough that he's momentarily forgotten to use English.

"Okay…I think. Y'see, the problem is that your IT people left an open backdoor in your firewall. It makes your entire system vulnerable to any skilled and unscrupulous hacker."

Chuck taps on the iPad in his jacket pocket. _"I'd_ never do it, of course—but I could hijack the _Lorelei_ myself. Right from the middle of your party even."

The second that boast leaves his lips, Chuck regrets making it.

" _Du_ …you…hacked _my_ ship?" sputters the Captain—too loudly for Chuck's comfort.

Sarah hears him and immediately excuses herself from her conversation with the Emirati couple, to hurry over and stand beside her husband.

Chuck continues to speak softly, trying to calm the agitated mariner.

"Not intentionally, Cap'n— _please_ believe that. I stumbled onto the backdoor just yesterday, while testing the security of La Plata's network. Theirs and yours are more closely linked than they probably ought to be."

Stübing eyeballs him with deep skepticism.

"Und I imagine zat now _I_ must hire _you_ to fix zis problem?"

"No sir!" replies Chuck smartly. "I've already written a patch for you. With your permission I'll make sure it's installed before Sarah and I disembark tomorrow. As a courtesy for the delightful service we've received the whole time we've been on board."

Sarah nods her head in enthusiastic agreement.

" _Vielen Dank,"_ murmurs the Captain in great relief. He slaps Chuck on the back, smiles cordially at Sarah, and then turns away to greet some of his other guests.

"Nice recovery, sweetie," Sarah says with admiration. "And I actually think Stübing trusts you. Not sure that I would—if I were in his shoes."

" _Hmmf,"_ chortles Chuck. "I probably wouldn't trust me either."

She takes hold of his tie and pulls her face up close to his.

"Speaking of shoes—wanna waltz?"

"You know I do," he replies warmly.

_(Music: "Velvet Waltz," by Built to Spill)_

Sarah and Chuck, happy to be able to focus on each other again and not their work, circle the dance floor several times. The Lightfoots are still among the other couples out there, and a trace of Cherise's perfume hangs in the air. Chuck artfully leads his wife so that they avoid dancing close to their shipboard nemeses for as long as possible…but eventually….

"Ey up, mi duck!" Grady hails them, as he and Cherise pull up alongside.

"Enjoying yourselves, I trust?" Sarah asks.

"Of course we are, dear." Cherise studies them both, gauging their mood before she speaks again.

"Sarah, may we cut in for this next waltz?"

"But we've just gotten started ourselves," Chuck protests.

"It's not just for a lark, Charles. There's something I must tell you."

"Whatever it is, you can tell me in front of my wife. We have no secrets."

Cherise wrinkles her nose. _"Pshaw!_ Have you no sense of drama, dear boy? Please allow me this one indulgence and you can share with her afterward."

Sarah and Chuck look to each other for guidance—and both can only shrug.

"Why not," Sarah finally acquiesces. "One dance."

The couples switch partners. Cherise takes Chuck's left hand in her right, slides her left arm around the back of his neck—instead of his shoulder—and presses her bosom into him as they start to dance. She waltzes as skillfully as Sarah does. Her perfume is not as blatant as it had been at other times, but there is also the faint sweet scent of a rum cocktail on her breath.

Chuck works hard to conceal his discomfort at her aggressive closeness.

"What was it you needed to tell me?" he asks, wasting no time.

" _Tell_ you? Oh—silly silly me," Cherise mischievously replies. "What I meant is that I need to _ask_ you something rather important."

"Fine—what is it?"

"How best to put this…?" The ex-agent's striking jade-green eyes meet his. "I'm wondering whether Sarah is really your wife—or, if she's merely your _partner,_ acting as your wife."

" _Hunh?"_ Chuck is dumbfounded, and without realizing it he stops dancing for a second, until Cherise tugs at him and gets them both moving again.

"Partner!" he growls. "What d'you mean—partner? And why is everybody all of a sudden asking if we're married? Of course we are! Why would you think otherwise?"

Cherise laughs softly; Chuck's indignant response has not fazed her in the least.

"Because the two of you aren't… _depraved_ enough," she says cryptically.

"Say _what?"_

"Look around you, sweet boy. This boat is full of people who have far too much money and absolutely no good intentions. Depraved—each in his or her own way—every single one of them!"

She tickles the back of his neck with her forefinger. "But I've had eyes on you and Sarah since you came on board—and you two simply don't match that model."

"Maybe we've got you fooled," suggests Chuck—surprised to find himself intrigued by the trajectory of their conversation.

Cherise shakes her head insistently.

"No. I earn a very good living taking the measure of people, Charles. You're on board for a very different reason. Something professional, I think. A job…or perhaps a mission of some sort? I've decided that you both must be secret agents."

"That's absurd!" Chuck snorts.

"I think not." Cherise cocks her head and gives him an inquisitive look. "Interpol? CIA? Or perhaps you're corporate spies for hire. Maybe a rival shipping line?"

"None of the above," replies Chuck with a sigh, "though it all sounds very exciting. But we just do laundry, like I already told you."

"No you don't. And hence, my initial question: spouses, or just _cover_ spouses?"

"You seem to be rather familiar with the jargon," Chuck points out.

Cherise coyly lifts an eyebrow, but says nothing.

"And at any rate, why would it matter whether or not Sarah and I are married?"

Now, Cherise truly looks disappointed.

"Are you saying that you can't tell when a woman is interested in you sexually? Oh dear—perhaps I _am_ mistaken about you being a spy."

"Oh…no…I suppose I should take that as a compliment," Chuck gently replies. "But the fact remains that I'm completely spoken for. For this, and the next couple of lifetimes…at least."

"I get it, Charles. Though she and I have grated on each other since we met, I can't help but agree that Sarah is one of a kind."

Then she grins, reaches down, and gives Chuck's butt a quick surreptitious squeeze.

"Can't fault the old girl for taking her shot, though!"

"H'yeah." Chuck rolls his eyes. "But here's a question for you: what would your husband think of you propositioning me like this? Assuming he really _is_ your husband?"

"Graydon and I have maintained a fully open marriage for years now, Charles. Tit for tat! He has the same complete freedom to make his own moves."

She smiles again, and nods sideways toward where Sarah and Grady are dancing, just in time to catch him lifting his head to whisper something in her ear.

"Well, that's certainly _—Wait a second!_ You don't mean he's trying to—"

_(WHOMP! CRASH! CLATTER!)_

In a panic, Chuck lets go of Cherise, turns—and sees Grady sprawled on his back on the floor, with his head and shoulders lying on a fallen serving tray and half-sunk in a big bowl of sticky black caviar. The server who had been holding the tray stands over him with her mouth agape and her hands gripping both sides of her head. Everyone has stopped dancing, and looks on in shock and awe as Sarah comes striding angrily toward Chuck and Cherise with her blue eyes afire.

"He's not a very good dancer," she says brusquely to a flabbergasted Cherise. Then she takes hold of Chuck's hand and starts to lead him away.

"Let's _go,_ sweetie," she says, loudly enough for all to hear. "I've had more than enough revelry for one night."

Watching everything from across the room, Captain Stübing seethes angrily….

* * *

Neither of them speaks as they walk hand-in-hand back to their cabin. But at the door, Sarah stops and puts her arms around Chuck's neck.

"I'm sorry I made such a scene back there," she murmurs in his ear. "But _—that man—_ I can't believe what he said to me!"

Chuck caresses her back soothingly.

"It's okay, babe. We're through with 'em. We'll be off this barge before breakfast."

"Let's pack before we go to bed, okay?"

"Sure." Chuck unlocks the cabin door and holds it open for his wife. They step inside; Sarah looks around for a moment—and then freezes!

" _Chuck!"_ she whispers. _"Someone broke in here while we were gone!"_

He points silently toward the bathroom. The door is closed.

" _I know I left it open when we went out to the casino,"_ he warns her.

" _Right. We always do."_

Sarah takes a cautious step forward, while reaching beneath her dress for her holstered pistol.

Then—everything happens _much too quickly—_

The door flies open! Sarah and Chuck catch the briefest glimpse of a broad-shouldered male figure inside—in the shadows—before a cloud of grey mist with a harsh chemical smell _bursts_ out of the bathroom and engulfs them both….

…and _then_ , everything seems to take _forever_ to happen…Sarah tries to sweep her pistol out in front of her…but her arm's gone dead…the gun slips from her grasp and slowly _faaaalllls_ end-over-end to the floor…Chuck's already sitting down there, his back to the wall and his eyes shut…then she starts to float down toward the bed…but _all goes dark_ before she lands—

 

* * *

**Meanwhile, back at the café-bar in Mannheim**

_Jeffster!_ 's opening set is done and the next band has taken the stage. Lester and Jeff are far too stoked to stay holed up in their dressing room, so they leave Jeff's keytar there and make their way through a newly appreciative, clapping, high-fiving crowd—until they locate the table at which their friends from Burbank are sitting.

Morgan and Alex quickly rise to their feet for an impromptu standing ovation—and the patrons at the adjoining tables join in the applause. Jeff grins giddily, then folds his hands and gives a humble little bow. Lester just sneers and waves his hand in dismissal.

"Never mind all that nonsense!" he shouts. "Somebody buy me a _beeeer!"_

Morgan slides a couple of empty barstools over for Jeff and Lester.

"That last song was _great!"_ effuses Alex, as both musicians beam. "You turned it all around with one Nirvana cover."

"Wasn't the song so much as the way we played it!" Jeff retorts.

"Didn't think you'd even heard of that band," Morgan needles them, while holding up four fingers to signal the closest server.

"Oh yeah," replies Lester. "We've learned a few new things in prison."

" _Prison?"_

"Not prison, moron—it's _college!"_ interjects Jeff, as he gives Lester a disapproving scowl. "Our producer, Herr Schinken, sent us to music school—it's called the _Popakademie!_ That's why we're here in Mannheim. But it's just for a while—and then, we go on tour."

At the mention of _college,_ Alex pinches Morgan's arm.

"See—even _those two_ have gone back to school!"

"I don't like it," Lester mutters. "Too restrictive, too confining. This little feathered Hinjew don't sing in no cage! That's why I sent Chuck that DVD—I was hoping he'd come and figure out a way to get us out."

" _Speaking of Chuck,"_ Alex whispers in Morgan's ear, _"shouldn't he and Sarah be checking in soon?"_

" _Yeah."_ Morgan looks down at the blank screen of his iPhone: no texts. _"He said they were just gonna make a brief appearance at a party and then go to bed."_

" _Must be having more fun than they expected to,"_ comments Alex.

"Well I think it's fantastic!" Jeff insists. "We've got a nice dorm room, the food is really good, and we're learning to play better and better every day."

"Except maybe for your first three songs tonight?" asks Morgan slyly.

"We just needed our muse." Lester puts his arm around Morgan's shoulder and laughs. "So—are you ready to go on the road with _Jeffster!,_ muse baby?"

"I think," counters Alex, "that you're going to have to make alternative arrangements!"

"Yeah—I'd prefer a prettier muse anyway," says Jeff. "No offense, man."

"None taken, man."

The server arrives with four pint mugs of frothy dark beer. Lester and Jeff grab theirs eagerly. Along with Morgan and Alex, they hoist the mugs high and clink them in satisfaction.

" _To prettier muses!"_ Lester toasts.

 

* * *

**Some time later**

Chuck awakens to a sharp pain in both of his wrists. They've been lashed to the arms of a heavy wooden chair with steel wire—quite uncomfortably so. He can't look down to see his ankles, but they're secured just as tightly to the chair legs. His jacket has been removed.

Sarah—still unconscious—sits slumped in a similar chair, facing him, about eight feet away. But her arms appear to be tied together behind her back.

" _Sarah!"_ he hisses desperately at her. _"Babe!"_

He tries to flex his arms and legs, and to rock his body back and forth—but he's securely tied down, and the chair is too heavy to move. He takes measured breaths, trying to keep himself calm, and looks around the room.

They're locked in a dimly lit mechanical compartment: hot, steamy, smelling of diesel fuel and mildew, and noisy—the engine room is nearby.

Sarah mumbles something incoherent, her eyes open, and she looks around.

"Damn it— _not again—not now!"_ she blurts out—and then, "Chuck! Chuck, are you all right?" She looks at her husband with deep concern.

"I'm okay…but I can't move a muscle. How about you, babe?"

Sarah wriggles her arms and legs—a little more than Chuck can, but still not much.

"I'm all right. But my hands are wrapped up in some kind of foam rubber collar or tube. I can't see it but it's really strong and I can't move my fingers very much."

"That's weird— _oww!"_ Chuck yips, after he yanks a little too hard on his sharp wire bindings. "But…do you feel okay, baby…you know?"

"Yeah. Both of us are just fine—but I'm mad as _hell_ that we got taken down so easily! Wonder if the hormones are making me sloppy."

They both laugh at that—in spite of their dire circumstances.

Then Sarah's face tenses as she strains to force her thumbs and forefingers together inside the thick, soft, rubber restraints. It takes her a while, but eventually she manages to tap them together the requisite three times—and two of her concealed cubic-zirconia blades emerge from beneath her fingernails.

Meanwhile, Chuck is sweeping his eyes around the dark compartment, looking for anything that might help them escape.

Sarah tries to slash through her bindings, but her fingers don't have enough mobility for that. With no other option available, she begins to claw pitifully at the thick rubber that firmly binds her wrists. All she can do is to try and dig herself out—and _that_ will take a lot of precious time. She keeps a nervous eye trained on the sealed bulkhead door.

Having surveyed everything at eye level and above, Chuck finally glances down at the floor—and his eyes go wide at what he sees!

" _Uh-oh, babe—look down!"_

All of his cyber-surveillance equipment, and all of Sarah's weapons, have been neatly and tantalizingly laid out on the floor between their two chairs: in plain sight but totally out of reach.

And suddenly _—(squeeee-WHUNK!)—_ the bulkhead door creaks open….

" _You!"_ exclaims Chuck.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck…but if I did…oh, boy….

**Aboard the _Geliebten Lorelei,_ in the compartment where Chuck and Sarah have been imprisoned**

Three men file into the stifling little room: first comes the young crewmember Pjeter Malota, wearing a tight dark-grey tracksuit that highlights his well-muscled upper body. He's followed by Herr Taschenratte—dressed in a well-tailored business suit as always—and a blank-faced henchman, who closes and latches the bulkhead door behind them.

Pjeter looks at the henchman and wordlessly gestures toward Chuck, tied up in the heavy wooden chair. The man goes over to stand next to Chuck, pulls out a Sig Sauer pistol, and aims it at the back of Chuck's head.

"Listen," says Chuck, "we're real sorry about Mr. Lightfoot, but don't you think this is kind of overkill? We'd be more than happy to buy him a new suit."

Taschenratte, who has taken a position to one side where he can see everyone in the room, softly laughs in amusement.

"Herr Lightfoot is the least of your concerns at present," he says. "I am afraid we have much more serious issues with you and your wife."

"Aren't you going to ask if we're really married—like everyone else has?" Chuck challenges him.

"Ah— _nein, nein!"_ replies Pjeter, as he casually walks over to Sarah's chair and makes a quick inspection of her bindings. Fortunately for her and Chuck, the thick elastic rubber tube that firmly encases her hands shows no external signs of the frantic clawing and digging she's been doing from inside of it.

"Ve already inspected all of your personal effects," Pjeter continues, leering down at Sarah, "and no doubt, the two of you are married!"

Sarah gives him a disgusted look. "Perverts!"

The muscular young man snickers, then turns back to face Chuck.

_(Music: "Easy [Switch Screens]," by Son Lux featuring Lorde)_

"So. We haff some qvestions for you. First—for whom do you vork?"

"Herr Teschmacher already knows the story," Chuck replies indignantly, and jerks his head in Taschenratte's direction. "We work for _ourselves—_ our own firm, Carmichael Industries. We do consulting work. And we just completed a cybersecurity audit for La Plata Gaming."

"Oh, I see," says Pjeter sarcastically. "And for zat kind of vork you need all of zese _veapons?"_ He sweeps his arm over the array of guns and knives taken from Chuck and Sarah's cabin, and laid out on the floor in front of them.

"With all the money and identity streams involved in any casino operation, you can't be too careful. Just ask Ms. Klemeyer."

Pjeter cackles, and throws his hands up as if he's just had a revelation.

"Of course! Perfectly logical now zat you've explained it!"

He lays one of his oversized hands on top of Chuck's bound right wrist.

"So ve'll just let you both go now— _ja?"_

" _Really?"_ Chuck asks reflexively.

"No— _not_ really! Because you are lying to us, Herr Carmichael." Pjeter scowls at Chuck, then squeezes the wires wrapped around his wrist— _hard_ —making him flinch.

Sarah clenches her teeth in frustration—and keeps on quietly digging into her restraints with the single-crystal zirconia blades attached to her forefingers.

"We know about the both of you," Taschenratte begins. "We had you checked out, and one of our associates from Berlin recognized you both as soon as he saw your photograph—"

" _Und_ zat is because," Pjeter cuts in, smiling expectantly, "a few months ago he vas employed by an international mercenary who is named—perhaps you haff heard of him— _Nicholas Kvinn?"_

Neither Chuck nor Sarah shows any outward recognition of the name of their former nemesis. But Sarah's concentration slips—just enough that she accidentally digs one of her fingernail knives into her own palm. She makes no sound, but her eyes widen for a critical half-second just as Pjeter is watching.

" _Ha!"_ he crows at her. "You _do_ know zat name—so you are _spies_ indeed! _Na schön_ —very well—whom are you vorking for? Interpol? CIA? _Der_ _Bundeskriminalamt?"_ (Subtitled: …German federal police?)

" _Der what?"_ Chuck fires back, but Pjeter ignores him.

"As you Americans say, the jig is up," says Taschenratte. "Answer Herr Malota's questions and save yourself a great deal of needless suffering. Believe me—as handsome and good-natured as he appears, you would not like Herr Malota when he is angry."

Hearing that, Sarah finally speaks up.

"You must know we wouldn't be here without backup. If Chuck and I don't report in by tomorrow morning, they'll be all over this ship—and all over _you,"_ she threatens.

"Your plans are to disembark in Mannheim at first light, are they not?" asks Taschenratte. "So if anyone does come to look for you—which I doubt—we will simply tell them you left on schedule, and we have no idea where you went."

Pjeter bends down, picks Chuck's iPhone up off the floor, and studies the screen.

"Your backup?" he taunts Chuck and Sarah. "Perhaps you refer to zis _Morgan_ who hass left you zeven texts _und_ five unanswered voicemails?"

"Morgan, eh?" asks Taschenratte as he strokes his chin. "Would that be the little bearded man in the white _spy van_ who has been following this vessel for days? Along with a lovely young woman?"

" _Spy van?"_ mutters Chuck. "What—it's _still_ that obvious?"

"Maybe ve—maybe _you—_ should text poor Morgan back," Pjeter suggests. "So you could reassure him all is vell. Der code to unlock zis smartphone, if you please?"

He taps on the iPhone screen with his hefty thumb.

"Don't _do_ that!" Chuck warns him—but too late.

A digital timer displaying _00:30_ in blood-red numerals shows on the screen, and the voice of Siri calmly announces:

" _Self-destruct in thirty seconds."_

The phone starts _beeping_ as the timer counts down.

"You really shouldn't mess with other people's tech," Chuck scolds Pjeter.

The silent henchman close by Chuck's side swallows loudly, and takes a step backward, though he keeps his gun trained on Chuck.

But Pjeter just sneers and leans in close to Chuck's face.

"You vill disarm it _now,"_ the big man says darkly, "or I vill shove it down your throat— _und_ Frau Carmichael can vatch it self-destruct your head."

" _You sick little bastard!"_ cries Sarah. _"Don't you dare hurt him!"_ Her hands still aren't free…and she can see that the situation is rapidly worsening for Chuck and her.

" _Cancel! Cancel self-destruct!"_ Chuck calls out in a rush. _"Pineapple upside down!"_

" _Self-destruct has been cancelled,"_ Siri duly notes.

The beeping ceases and the countdown timer winks off. But as all the bad guys have their attention focused on the iPhone, not one of them notices it when one of Chuck's several iPads, arrayed on the floor, silently powers up at the command of _Pineapple upside down._

"Enough time vasted!" snarls Pjeter. " _How much do you know about us?"_

He tosses the iPhone down…then rears up and dramatically draws his softball-sized right fist back to slug Chuck in the face—but Chuck spontaneously _flashes_ —and with his reflexes thus amplified, twists his head at the perfect instant to evade the blow.

Pjeter follows with a left hook, but Chuck dodges that too—and Pjeter's momentum propels his fist solidly _(summpk!)_ into the rusty steel bulkhead behind Chuck's chair.

" _Stop it!"_ yells Sarah. _"Please stop it!"_ She nicks her own hand inside her bindings once again—but this time she doesn't even realize it.

Saying nothing—but seething—Pjeter rubs his bruised fist for a few seconds…then stoops down and picks up one of Sarah's throwing knives.

" _No!"_ shouts Sarah.

With a startlingly fluid and graceful motion for such a musclebound man, Pjeter rises, pivots around, and plunges the knife to the hilt in Chuck's left thigh!

Chuck _grunts_ —and Sarah _screams_. Even Herr Taschenratte goes a bit pale at his associate's paroxysm of violence.

"Dodge _zat_ ," Pjeter vehemently spits out.

" _Chuck!"_ Sarah calls to her husband as tears well in her eyes. "Look at me, Chuck— _look at me!_ Stay with me! It's all right sweetie—it'll be okay—I'm gonna get you out of here!"

But her hands are still restrained behind her….

"D-don't…freak out, right?" murmurs Chuck, smiling wanly at Sarah. His face is pale and he's breathing heavily, raggedly—but steadily: fighting through the pain, as his spy training taught him to do.

" _Ja,_ sure, Frau Carmichael, you'll get him out…in a _body bag,"_ retorts Pjeter cruelly.

He roughly yanks the knife free, causing Chuck to _hissss_ through his teeth in further agony. Then—coldly, heartlessly—Pjeter brings the bloody blade over to Sarah and shows it off in front of her horrified face.

"Now you know ve are serious here. So if either of you does not start talking, I'll use _your_ veapons to take _your_ husband apart piece by piece…by piece."

Sarah's eyes constrict to fierce, dark, murderous slits as they fix on Pjeter.

"You're a dead man."

"I think not." Pjeter chuckles, and creepily runs the fingers of his empty hand through Sarah's blonde hair. She recoils from his touch in bitter disgust.

" _Und_ so you know, there are _special_ plans for you, Frau Carmichael—after ve haff finished our business in here."

Pjeter withdraws his fingers from her hair, makes a show of sniffing them, and winks knowingly at Chuck.

Sarah closes her eyes and wills herself to stay cool—just as one of her fingernail blades finally pokes through the thick rubber of her restraints. As Pjeter steps away from her to resume torturing Chuck, she immediately starts to saw the restraints open.

Chuck senses Sarah's breakthrough, and calls out to her in a shaky voice.

"Baby—are y-you ready to leave now?" His gaze subtly shifts down to the floor—to his spy gear—to the powered-up iPad.

Pjeter and Taschenratte laugh mockingly at his inquiry, but Sarah nods in affirmation.

"Yes—I'd like to leave now." She gauges the distance to the henchman who's holding a pistol on Chuck. Without some kind of distraction, she wouldn't be able to reach him before he put a bullet in her husband's head….

Pjeter menacingly slaps the flat of the knife against his palm.

"I think I vill next take an ear. Ze right or ze left—do you haff a preference, Chuck?"

"Perhaps you should go slower, Herr Malota," Taschenratte nervously suggests. "We won't get any useful information if you push him over the edge."

"You are _such a vussy,"_ Pjeter jeers at his more cautious associate.

"Sarah—do you remember our mission underneath Meadow Branch Subdivision?"

"Yes…yes, sweetie, I do."

"Right ear," Pjeter decides—and takes a step toward Chuck, who struggles to keep his voice level as he keeps talking to Sarah:

"Good. Now do you remember what I told you to do when we were there?"

 _(Flashback to several years earlier in the bowels of a secret Fulcrum base, and Chuck admonishing a captive Sarah, then his CIA handler, to:_ "Close your eyes." _)_

"I remember it," replies Sarah in a tone of absolute certainty.

Pjeter points at Chuck with the knife, and comes a step closer. The henchman on the side _clicks_ back the hammer on his pistol.

"Time to do it again, babe— _NOW! Pineapple flambé!"_

Sarah and Chuck slam their eyes shut, just as Pjeter leans over the powered-up iPad on the floor—which _explodes—(ZZZWHAMM!)—_ in an instant of unbearable silver-white light that floods the dingy compartment—and _blinds_ everyone except our heroes!

A moment later, Sarah opens her eyes to find all of the bad guys in various states of disarray. The henchman has lost his pistol and has fallen to his knees while flailing around himself with both hands, attempting to locate the weapon. Taschenratte—whimpering in terror—is moving sideways with both hands pressed up against the bulkhead, looking for the doorway out.

Pjeter is staggering, growling like a scalded bear, and uselessly rubbing his eyes with one hand…but he still has the throwing knife clutched in his other hand.

And Chuck—in spite of his frightful wound—is already grappling with his bonds again, trying to work his wrists loose.

Sarah slips her arms out of the sliced-up restraints, then swipes downward with her fingertip blades to cut her ankles free as well. She jumps up from the chair—

—and not a heartbeat too soon, as Pjeter—though temporarily unable to see—has somehow stumbled into the still-immobilized Chuck. He has one hand on her husband's neck, and is raising the throwing knife high, for a killing blow!

Emitting a chilling, wordless _shriek_ of retribution, Sarah leaps—and hurtles through the air while clasping her feet together to _SMASH_ them—with all of the force she can summon—full-on into the side of Pjeter's head! The vicious crewman, blinded and preoccupied with trying to finish Chuck off, is caught unawares and unprepared to sustain the blow. His neck audibly _snaps!_ and his muscular body drops limply to the deck ( _clump-thump!_ ), sprawled out to one side of Chuck's chair.

For good measure, Sarah spins around and knocks the henchman out with a second kick, before he has a chance to retrieve his pistol.

She sighs in relief and kneels down in front of her husband, morphing from ninja avenger to distressed, solicitous spy wife. She efficiently uses her fingernail knives to snip the steel wires that bind Chuck's wrists and ankles, and the coils slide off to the floor.

"Don't move, sweetie." Sarah carefully cuts the blood-soaked fabric of his slacks away from the site of Chuck's knife wound before she retracts the zirconia blades. The palms of her hands are bleeding from their own accidental cuts, and her blood mingles with his as she gently tugs the fabric away and tenderly examines the nasty wound.

"Kind of a mess, aren't we?" Chuck mutters.

"We're alive," Sarah replies. "Does it hurt really bad?"

"Like holy hell at first but it's just kind of throbbing now. Sure wish I knew why they did this to us."

"We'll find out. I'm afraid you might be going into shock. But you haven't bled too much—thank goodness—so I don't think he cut your femoral artery."

"Seems like he _did_ cut all the nerve endings, though," Chuck winces.

"I suspect he was trained for that sort of thing," notes Sarah with a shudder. "Anyway, we've got to get out of here and off this lunatic ship—I need to get you to a hospital as soon as I can."

She spots Chuck's suit jacket on the floor behind his chair, picks it up, and reaches behind her for one of her throwing knives. Swiftly and methodically, she cuts the silk lining of the jacket into a large cloth bandage, and ties it securely over her husband's wound.

Then, to his surprise, she takes hold of his right hand and pushes his fingers firmly into his groin, while giving him a sly look.

"Sarah, what?"

"Pressure point, silly! If you start bleeding, reach in here, find the pulse, and press as hard as you can." She slips an arm around his back. "Okay, let's see if you can stand—"

"Baby, wait," urges Chuck. "Hand me that jacket back a second."

Sarah looks mystified, but as requested, she passes him the shredded remains of the garment. Chuck reaches inside of it and pulls out a large, clean, white handkerchief. He holds it out to his wife.

"Cut this in half and let's wrap your hands with it. I think it's big enough."

Time is critical—but Chuck is insistent, and Sarah gives him a loving, appreciative smile as he bandages her cut hands as skillfully as she tended to his wounded thigh.

Then, with shaking arms and a grimace—and a little tug from Sarah—Chuck pushes himself up out of the chair and to his feet, leaning largely on his uninjured leg. He looks down at the prone form of Pjeter Malota.

"He's still breathing."

"I wanted to kill him," says Sarah matter-of-factly.

"That tree trunk of a neck must have saved him."

"Can't waste any more time on him now."

Sarah hurriedly scoops up as many weapons as she can carry, and hands Chuck his iPhone and one undamaged iPad. He slips the devices into the pocket of his slacks and slips his right arm over Sarah's proffered shoulder. Together, they start hobbling toward the bulkhead door, which Taschenratte had left open in his haste to get away.

After a couple of clumsy steps, Chuck stops and looks earnestly into Sarah's face.

"I'm slowing us both down way too much, babe. Better you leave me here and go get help. I'll find a place to hide or something."

"Not even worth discussing," she rejoins, and starts them moving forward again.

"I mean it, Sarah. You…the baby…?"

"Needs a daddy. I appreciate the gallant offer, Chuck—but I am _not_ leaving you behind. So can we please stay focused on getting _all three_ of us out of here safely?"

"All right, all right…and I love you."

"Love you too."

They limp through the open door—and enter the ship's laundry room! The massive industrial washers and dryers are silent and there is no one in the room. Neatly folded white monogrammed towels and luxury bedsheets have been stacked on spotless tabletops, and more of them have already been loaded into boxy, cloth-sided laundry carts, ready for morning housekeeping in a few hours.

A short distance across the room there is a freight elevator.

Sarah and Chuck survey their surroundings, and both break into wide grins.

"I can't _believe_ it," she says in amazement.

"This could just work," he adds.

Sarah leads Chuck to the nearest laundry cart, and then starts tossing towels and sheets out to make room inside of it.

"How ironic," mutters Chuck, "considering our cover identities for this job."

"Yeah…all right sweetie, let's get you inside. And keep that bad leg elevated!"

She helps Chuck clamber—awkwardly and painfully—into the laundry cart. He settles down diagonally on the remaining sheets and towels and—following his wife's orders—props his bandaged leg up against the front end of the cart, with his big black Chuck Taylor sneaker resting on the lip.

Sarah gives the laden cart a test push with her fingers. It moves smoothly, although the wheels squeak. She starts the cart rolling across the laundry room toward the elevator. Chuck takes his iPhone in hand.

"Gotta warn Morgan and Alex—pronto."

"Yes but make it a text—and quick," Sarah insists. "You've got to find us a route to the closest lifeboat station."

"Got it," Chuck replies. He fires off the text and switches to his iPad, to hack into the ship's network. "Looks like we need to ride up to the promenade deck."

They roll into the elevator and Sarah slams the button labeled _P_. The doors converge with frustrating slowness—and just before they close completely, Chuck and Sarah hear footsteps approaching, and Taschenratte's frantic voice:

" _Da gehen sie hin! Da gehen sie hin! Sie müssen sie stoppen!"_ (Subtitled: There they go! There they go! You must stop them!)

" _Whew,"_ exhales Chuck as the freight elevator starts rising.

"We still have a gauntlet to run," Sarah points out.

"Leveling the playing field is what the Piranha does best," Chuck replies ominously.

Ill-treated by the night's events, fearful of threats he and Sarah may have yet to face, and harassed by the pulsing pain in his thigh, the normally good-natured supernerd turns back to his iPad with an uncharacteristic orneriness. The Piranha is eager to bite!

 

* * *

**At the café-bar in Mannheim**

The last band to play— _Stinkende Käse_ —has just finished its set and two encores. The stage crew is starting to take down the amps and speakers, and patrons are just beginning to leave.

The house was packed and the concert was enjoyed by all—and Lester and Jeff are still sampling the fruits of their own minor contribution to the event. People keep stopping by the table _Jeffster!_ still shares with Alex and Morgan, to show their appreciation with a handshake, a nod, a pat on the back…even an occasional kiss!

"See, Lester," says Jeff with delight, "women _and_ men love us—just like Herr Schinken told us they would!"

"Could be a watershed night for you guys," says Alex. "But you've gotta keep it up."

Jeff looks at his watch. "And we'd better get goin' soon, back to the dorm at the _Popakademie._ I've got Advanced Keyboard at nine-thirty _Uhr_ tomorrow."

He turns toward Morgan. "You know, Herr Schinken says I should switch from the keytar to digital piano and synthesizers—what d'ya think of _that?"_

" _Hmm?"_ asks Morgan, distracted by a text message that has just appeared on his iPhone screen.

"I'm gonna play digital piano! Hey—does that mean we'll need to find a _guitarist?"_

" _Jeff!"_ screeches Lester indignantly. "How can you even _think_ about diluting the perfect blend that is _Jeffster!_ by bringing in someone else…an outsider…an _interloper?"_

"Just sayin'. By the way—when do we see Chuck and Sarah?"

"I'm…umm…not sure," Morgan replies diffidently. Alex gives him a concerned look. He slides the iPhone under the table to her lap, so only she can read the screen:

YOU'RE IN POTENTIAL DANGER. STAY AWAY FROM THE VAN. FIND SAFE PLACE TO LAY LOW UNTIL WE CONTACT YOU AGAIN. GOTTA RUN.

"Guys," Morgan asks Lester and Jeff, "I think we're gonna need a place to crash tonight—you got any space on your floor?"

 

* * *

**Meanwhile, on the promenade deck of the _Geliebten Lorelei_**

By the time the elevator doors open again, the Piranha, grinning impishly—even vengefully—has begun to administer a good dose of havoc to his and Sarah's still-undefined enemies.

_(Music: "Molotov," by Seeed)_

Sirens and alarms start wailing all over the _Geliebten Lorelei._ All the lights in the passageways, public areas, and private cabins flicker—once, twice—then go out completely, to be replaced by flashing blue-white emergency strobes. On all the decks, the passengers file out of their cabins, out of the dining room, and the casino—out into the passageways. Some already have life jackets on. They listen apprehensively for emergency instructions that never come. The flustered crewmembers are just as uncertain as they are about what's gone wrong.

The passageways rapidly clog up with milling, confused, upset people.

* * *

Having failed to intercept Sarah and Chuck at the freight elevator, Taschenratte and his men now have to race up a narrow spiral staircase that climbs three levels from the laundry room to the promenade deck. But they don't get very far before they run into a stream of passengers squeezing in from the middle decks—every one of them striving to reach the open air on the uppermost deck.

Within seconds, the evil purser and his henchmen are absorbed into the mob and are thoroughly separated from each other.

* * *

On the promenade deck, Sarah propels the laundry cart carrying her injured husband into the heart of the chaos he created.

" _Left, babe, go left,"_ he shouts to her over the banshee wail of the alarms, as he continues to track the escape route mapped out on his iPad.

" _Excuse us! Sorry! Coming through!"_ Sarah roars as she forces the cart through the clueless throng, nudging and pushing people out of the way as needed.

Chuck glances back over his shoulder and notices that something else in their wake is also shoving hapless passengers this way and that: it's an irate crewman with a sizable nightstick in his hand—and he's gaining on Chuck and Sarah by taking advantage of the swath that they're cutting through the crowd.

" _Uh-oh—bad company on your six, baby! Don't slow down—I'll get 'im!"_

" _Roger that!"_

The Piranha breaks into another sector of the _Lorelei's_ automated systems—and just as their pursuer passes beneath a fire-extinguisher nozzle in the ceiling, a load of thick and sticky orange retardant foam floods down on his head. A few of the passengers closest to him also get splashed, but he bears the brunt of the dump from above. He slip-slides to the deck in a foamy orangey heap—and just like that, the threat from behind is neutralized.

" _And you tried to convince me to leave you behind?”_ Sarah needles Chuck, as a glint of pride colors her otherwise tense facial expression.

 

* * *

**On the bridge**

The First Mate stares out at the river and holds the ship's wheel as firmly as her trembling hands will allow her. Whatever has seized control of the cruise liner's network isn't interfering with navigation—at least not yet. Still, the sheer number of flashing red lights and buzzing alarms going off all around the bridge—not to mention the steady blare of much more piercing sirens rising from the decks below—is unnerving her tremendously.

Seated nearby at an array of monitor screens, the Master Tech Chief stares dumbfounded at strings of error messages and system alerts he's never encountered before. It's abundantly clear that he has absolutely _no idea_ what to do about them.

Suddenly, _Kapitän_ Stübing bursts in: huffing and sweating, still in the white dress uniform he wore to his party. He sees the fear in his First Mate's eyes. He looks over the Master Tech Chief's shoulder at the readouts from his ship's beleaguered systems. He bellows a few futile questions in rapid-fire German at both of them and gets only timid shrugs in return.

Powerless, eyes bulging in exasperation, the Captain can only snarl, _"Carmichael!"_

 

* * *

The Carmichaels in question continue to wedge their way through the crush on the promenade deck.

" _Sarah—turn right at the next corridor!"_

" _What—the casino entrance? Why?"_

" _Klemeyer—what if they come after her too—we gotta warn her!"_

" _I suppose…"_ Sarah sounds leery of her husband's idea, but she rolls the laundry cart around the corner anyway—

—and she and Chuck unexpectedly come face to face with Herr Taschenratte—standing in the doorway of the deserted casino, silhouetted by a flashing white strobe light behind him, and holding a pistol!

The villainous purser seems just as astonished to see Chuck and Sarah as they are to come upon him—but with a weapon already in his hand, he has the drop on them.

" _Halt!"_ he barks, and raises the gun as Sarah desperately reaches for her own pistol—a second too late—

—but then a shadowy figure, short of stature but nimble and quick, bursts out from the casino entrance and _—(zunnk!)—_ slams into Taschenratte from behind, below the waist, at a full clip! The purser somersaults backward, his gun goes flying, and his head slams _(thok!)_ against the floor—he's out cold without ever having seen who took him down!

" _Rack 'em, ruck 'em, and really—oops—ey up, mi duck!"_ the mystery tackler calls out as he sprints on past Chuck and Sarah—revealing himself to be none other than Grady Lightfoot!

" _Huh!"_ exclaims Chuck with his mouth agape.

" _Thank you!"_ Sarah calls out…but Grady has already turned the corner and vanished into the crowd in the passageway.

Sarah and Chuck scoot around the fallen purser and into the eerily quiet La Plata Lorelei casino. Chips, playing cards, and cocktail glasses are strewn about: people must have bugged out of here in a particular hurry when the sirens went off.

But the casino isn't completely unoccupied. Karin Klemeyer is pacing back and forth, muttering to herself, in her office—lit more brightly than elsewhere on the ship owing to a few extra battery-powered lamps. She does a double take when Sarah appears with Chuck in the laundry cart:

"How the _hell_ did—I—I mean—what _is_ this with the cart—a crazy prank? Do you know what is happening with all these alarms? Is this _your_ doing—"

" _Never mind!"_ Chuck interrupts her. "We're here to warn you—there's some kind of secret illicit operation on board—and Malota and Taschenratte just tried to kill us over it! We think you might be a target too, because of your connection to us."

Klemeyer is dubious.

"Herr Taschenratte? The ship's purser? _Das ist Banane—_ that sounds crazy!"

"He ambushed us just out front," says Sarah icily. "And he had a gun."

"But don't worry—he's incapacitated now," Chuck adds.

" _Mein Gott…Mein Gott,"_ mutters Klemeyer. "Are you trying to get off the boat?"

"We are—and maybe you should come with us."

"Yes…yes…perhaps I should. I know a way—I can help you escape." Klemeyer steps behind her desk and reaches into a drawer. "But I must lock the casino down first."

"You don't have to," counters Chuck. "I can do that for— _hey—whoa!"_

Klemeyer is pointing a pistol at him.

"Oh, come on," says Sarah in exasperation. "Not you too!"

"We are definitely going to complain to the German tourist board," quips Chuck.

"I'm so sorry," Klemeyer blurts out, almost sobbing now. "I had no choice—I was new and I _had_ to cooperate with them—it was either gold, or lead! And in return they brought a much better clientele on board—"

" _Better?"_ asks Sarah with a look of disdain. "Richer, I'll grant you."

All of a sudden, the casino manager's eyes narrow as she notices that Sarah has her right hand concealed behind her back.

"Whatever you're hiding, Frau Carmichael—bring your hand out _slowly_ so I can—"

 _(Whoosh—whunnk—clunk!)_ The next thing Klemeyer knows is that her shooting hand is pinned tightly to her extravagantly paneled office wall by a knife through the sleeve of her blouse, and her gun is out of reach on the floor.

Sarah comes over to the pinioned young woman, jauntily pats her on the cheek—and then _socks_ her senseless! She finishes by retrieving her throwing knife and letting Klemeyer slide underneath her own desk.

"No time to tie her up," Sarah reasons, with a shrug, as she wheels her husband back out of the casino.

"Great shot, what with the bandaged hand and all," Chuck says admiringly.

"Thanks sweetie. How are you holding up?"

"Still running on adrenaline, but I _am_ starting to feel just a bit woozy."

Sarah looks into the cart—and her breath catches when she sees fresh blood soaking into the linens beneath Chuck's leg. She grabs his hand and pushes it into his groin again.

"You're not doing your job! C'mon, Chuck—right _here!_ Press down hard! Hard!"

"All right, babe." He takes over, and Sarah wheels him back toward the casino doorway.

"No more delays, damn it," she grimly vows. "We're getting you on a lifeboat now."

" _Frau Sarah?!"_

It's Vama—the young Romani server is standing in their path out to the main passageway, alongside the unconscious Taschenratte, looking more puzzled than frightened.

"I was watch him point the gun at you—and Herr Graydon knock him down—all these sirens on and on—what is happening to us?"

"Herr Taschenratte is a criminal, Vama," Sarah calmly replies, "and he and Pjeter are doing some very very bad things—look how they hurt Herr Charles!"

Vama peers into the laundry cart, then jumps back as if stung.

" _Boze moj!"_ she shrieks. (Subtitled: Oh my God!)

"You see? It's not safe for us on the boat so we are going to take a lifeboat."

The young woman considers this and then shakes her head.

"But the crew guards the lifeboats always…I must assist you! Come with me, Frau Sarah!" She runs ahead of them into the passageway.

"Do we trust her?" Chuck quietly asks.

"I sure hope so," replies Sarah fervently. "I'd feel awful to have to hit _her_ too!"

* * *

At the stern of the _Geliebten Lorelei_ , the promenade deck opens to the outside at a small catwalk that leads out to where two lifeboats are lashed to the side of the hull. It's dark and quiet—except for the pervasive whistle of a steady cool breeze off the river—and none of the randomly milling passengers farther forward has found this place as of yet.

Vama and Sarah survey the situation from behind a wide pillar a few meters away. Two male crewmembers are standing on the catwalk, smoking and chatting softly between themselves.

Sarah whispers a few instructions to Vama, who nods in acknowledgment.

Seconds later, the young server slips out from behind the pillar and darts toward the catwalk—panting hard and looking as alarmed as she possibly can.

" _Zu helfen! Es Herr Taschenratte—er verletzt ist! Durch das Kasino!"_ (Subtitled: Help! It's Herr Taschenratte—he's hurt! By the casino!)

The two guards drop their cigarettes and take off running—right past a hidden alcove where Sarah and Chuck have concealed themselves. Vama follows them for a few paces before turning around and returning to the catwalk.

Sarah is already helping Chuck hobble out to the lifeboats.

"Will you be all right now?" Vama asks them.

"Yes, and thanks," Sarah answers. "Come with us, Vama. Until we find out what Taschenratte and his men are really up to, we can't be sure that anyone is safe on board this ship."

"I desire it—thank you," says Vama wistfully. "But I cannot leave Zora my cousin—I must stay for protecting her. Do not worry about me, Frau Sarah."

Sarah hugs the pretty, plucky Romani girl. "We'll come back for you. I promise."

* * *

They find blankets, water bottles, and a first-aid kit in the lifeboat when they board it. As electric winches gently lower them to the choppy surface of the Rhine, Sarah spends the moment ministering to her husband. Chuck is beginning to show signs of blood loss: his skin is pale and clammy, and he's getting more and more lethargic.

Sarah says nothing to suggest it—but Chuck can easily discern that she is nearly beside herself with worry.

When the lifeboat touches the river, she quickly unclamps it and starts the outboard motor.

" _Hope we're clear before anyone hears this!"_ she shouts over the engine noise as they glide away from the _Lorelei._

Chuck lifts a wobbly arm to point toward the sky. A big military-style helicopter is fast approaching from downstream, and it already has a glaring spotlight trained on the stricken cruise vessel.

"Must be cops," he mutters. "Need one more distraction to get clear. Hold on babe!"

He gathers his remaining energy, takes up his iPad—and the Piranha dispatches one final command to override the control systems aboard the _Lorelei._

Deep inside the vessel, the powerful diesel engines abruptly rev into full forward power! The bow rears up and the wide stern drops, as the propellers dig deeply into the Rhine and hustle the craft forward. The resulting wake picks up Sarah and Chuck's little lifeboat and carries it well out of view from the arriving police helicopter.

Chuck manages a goofy grin at his wife before his eyelids close. "Nap…time…."

Sarah lovingly rests a reassuring—and still bandaged—hand on Chuck's shoulder—then bites her lip to keep it from quavering, guns the motor, and steers the lifeboat toward the bright lights of Mannheim.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Chuck but I'd be glad to make an offer.

**Fourth day, morning—in an office in the headquarters of the _Bundeskriminalamt_ ( _BKA_ ) in the city of Wiesbaden, 67 kilometers downstream from Mannheim**

A craggy-faced, well-dressed senior agent of the _BKA—_ the German Federal Criminal Police—studies a video news report playing on a screen at his desk. The German-language narration on the video clip has been overdubbed in English:

"… _four Americans—all of them suspected terrorists, say authorities…."_

The aerial night-vision video shows a Mercedes-Benz Sprinter van tearing through the narrow, dim streets of Mannheim, shattering the pre-dawn peace.

"… _a last desperate bid to escape justice after their bold but failed attempt to hijack the luxury vessel_ Geliebten Lorelei _in mid-cruise…."_

The van is being pursued by four police cruisers with their lights flashing and sirens keening.

"… _and take the more than one hundred wealthy passengers aboard the boat captive, for ransom…."_

The scene soon reveals to the viewer what the people in the fleeing van may not realize: that their route is leading directly to the Rhine River waterfront, and that in mere seconds they'll have to stop….

… _if_ they intend to be taken alive! The van swerves around a blind corner and emerges at the waterfront with no more than a hundred meters in which to come to a stop—but instead, it _accelerates!_ and _shoots_ over the embankment! and _hurtles_ through the air before it _SLAMS_ into the river and immediately sinks out of sight, beneath a curtain of spray.

The video jumps forward to a scene of the crushed, waterlogged van being fished from the dank waters by a boom crane, then lowered to the ground in the midst of a horde of waiting emergency personnel and police investigators.

"… _the bodies of two men and two women, whose identities have not yet been released by police, were recovered from the submerged vehicle."_

The _BKA_ agent stops the video at this point and _harrumphs_ in satisfaction.

"That is as much as we will share with the media."

He turns his face toward a second screen to address an American colleague who has been watching the same video, from _her_ desk: General Diane Beckman at the DNI in Washington!

" _Very realistic, Dieter,"_ replies Beckman. _"I assume the_ BKA _has a reason for reporting the Bartowski team killed when you've already detained them—very much alive?"_

" _Ja_ —the ruse is for the benefit of our targets—targets of a _highly_ sensitive operation involving multiple law-enforcement agencies—into which _your_ people have blundered at the worst possible time."

" _They're not_ my _people any more,"_ Beckman retorts—then emits a deep sigh that seems to suggest otherwise.

" _However,"_ she goes on, _"blundering in—as you put it—was_ modus operandi _for Team Bartowski when they_ were _still with the Company. And typically, with positive results. You may be surprised."_

"Pardon me if I am skeptical, Diane," replies Dieter. "At any rate, there will be no further blundering. The Bartowskis are already under police guard at the hospital. I will go to Mannheim shortly to debrief them. Following that, Interpol will dispatch two special agents to transport their entire six-person team to a secure—"

" _Six?"_

" _Ja_ —six. Including the two American musicians who are harboring Grimes and McHugh in their quarters at the _Popakademie_. I believe they call themselves—"

" _Jeffster!"_ Beckman blurts out—and her pursed lips nearly break into a smile, just for an instant. _"…It figures."_

Dieter is astonished. "You _know_ this seedy pair?"

" _I'm a big fan,"_ she quips.

 

* * *

**Meanwhile, in a quiet, darkened room in a Mannheim hospital**

_(Music: "A Question and an Answer," by Tim Jones…accompanied by the rhythmic, steady, soft beeping of various biomonitors)_

" _Nnnuuuh….!"_

Chuck awakens with a whole-body shiver, to find that he and Sarah aren't still imprisoned on the _Geliebten Lorelei_ and still being tortured, as he had just been dreaming. Instead, he's lying in a hospital bed, wrapped in a warm, soft gown. A bag of blood plasma is dripping through an IV tube into his left arm, and there are various biosensors stuck to his chest and extremities.

And— _there's no sensation in his left leg!_ Panicking momentarily, Chuck gapes at the far end of the bed. His wounded leg is hidden beneath the bedsheets, numbed with anesthetic and bulked up with a bandage—but it's still there, intact, and he discovers that he can at least wiggle it.

Chuck sighs in relief, and then notices something warm pressing against his other side: Sarah, sitting in a chair pushed close to his bed with her upper body draped over the edge of his mattress—asleep, with her head lying sideways against Chuck's ribs, and one arm resting loosely but protectively over his abdomen. He can hear her breathing calmly and evenly, but her contorted position looks awkward and uncomfortable.

He slips his free right arm out from under the sheets and reaches out for Sarah's hand, intending to squeeze it and gently wake her—but he finds a fresh bandage wrapped around her cut palm, so he caresses the back of her hand instead.

"Sarah…? Babe?"

" _Huhhm?"_ she murmurs, and drowsily lifts her head to smile at him. "Hi."

"Hi yourself," replies Chuck—for the moment, more awake than she is. "And thanks. Guess I've been out for a while, huh?"

"Kinda sorta. You thrashed around a little in the taxicab on the way here."

"Taxicab…?"

Sarah shrugs. "Attracts less attention than an ambulance. Only thing was I had to pay the driver extra to get the bloodstains cleaned off the back seat."

"Whoa—glad I was unconscious through _that,"_ admits Chuck with a nervous titter. "Are your hands gonna be okay, babe?"

"Of course— _sheesh!—_ they're just scratched! It was _your_ blood that I was referring to."

Chuck blanches. "I was afraid that's what you meant."

"Don't worry, sweetie." Sarah laughs and points to the plasma IV. "You're on your third pint already. Once you've been topped off you'll be fine. Turns out Pjeter did nick a branch of your femoral artery—but on the plus side, the cut was sharp and there's very little muscle damage. Thank goodness!"

She kisses her husband's forehead, and then the tip of his nose—and _then,_ she smooshes a much more passionate kiss on his lips that brings all the color back to his face…and then some!

"Oh yeah—and just so you know," she continues, "there are two very stoic _Polizists_ stationed outside this room. So far they've let us have our space—but if we try to leave, I think they'll want to arrest us for cyberterrorism or something."

"Well that's sure ironic," says Chuck, scratching his chin. "And a bit of a problem."

"But one we can put off for a while—seeing as you're not supposed to leave here for at least eight more hours. So said the surgeon."

"And Morgan and Alex?"

Sarah wrinkles her nose. "They're holed up in some kind of dormitory with Lester and Jeff. Gotta be grungy—but safe for the time being."

"Um…Sarah?"

"Yeah?"

"Where's my phone?"

"I was afraid you'd ask that." She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. "I think it fell out of your pocket back on the boat. But it's locked down…isn't it?"

Chuck nods. "Default secure setting. Anyone picks it up, it'll transmit a snapshot of their face but otherwise be unusable. We can destroy it remotely at any time— _if_ —"

Without finishing his sentence, he looks questioningly at Sarah.

"We _do_ still have my iPad at least, right? Didn't I have it with me on the lifeboat?"

"Yes." Sarah snakes her arm underneath his pillow, where she had hidden the smart device. She extracts the iPad and hands it to her husband, who props it against the blankets on his chest and starts working it with his free hand. After only a few seconds, he gets a fix on the location of his iPhone.

"Yep, still there on the boat and… _uhh-oh!"_ Chuck is immediately concerned. Sarah looks over his shoulder at the image on the screen and _gasps._

The snapshot is of Vama—reaching down into the laundry cart to grab the phone.

"Hope she knows enough to keep that well-concealed," Sarah says fervently.

"But somewhere nearby—that way, we can keep tabs on her location." Chuck looks around the room…and his eyes gleam confidently when they spot a networked computer terminal on a crash cart near the bed.

"Would you mind, babe?" he asks Sarah, gesturing toward the cart. "Seems the Piranha has a little bit of work left to do—and that terminal will help."

"As long as you can do it one-handed," she admonishes her husband, again eyeing that IV tube in his left arm.

 

* * *

**Same time, same hospital—but three floors lower**

Herr Taschenratte, with a bandage plastered over the back of his head, rolls Pjeter Malota out of the emergency room in a wheelchair. Pjeter sits stiffly in the chair, with his neck rigidly immobilized by a high, gleaming white cervical collar.

As helpless as he is frustrated and sullen, Pjeter mumbles a few indecipherable words to Taschenratte in a weak, whispery voice. The purser stops the wheelchair and bends down close to his fellow evildoer.

" _Was hast du gesagt?"_ he asks.

" _Englisch,"_ hisses Pjeter. "Someone….might be…listening…."

"Fine. What's your question?"

"How…long…boat docked…Mannheim?"

"Probably until tonight," replies the purser. _"_ All ship's systems must be scrubbed and rebooted. And the casino must be put right as well. The passengers were shooed into town for the entire day. I'm told some have already cancelled the remainder of their trip—"

Pjeter's eyes distend in alarm.

"Of course none of _our_ clients have done that," Taschenratte quickly adds.

"Can't…delay…if ve…don't move ze cargo…ve're…goot as dead…."

"I know. I know."

Taschenratte wheels his partner toward the exit…but then stops abruptly, without any warning, painfully jerking Pjeter's neck.

" _Unnnh!_ " groans Pjeter. _"_ What…in…hell?"

" _Look!"_

The falsified news story about the pursuit and drowning of Team Carmichael—this time narrated in German—is showing on a TV screen on the waiting-room wall. Pjeter looks up and both men intently watch the brief video clip.

"So—that's that," Taschenratte quietly exults, after the news story ends. "The old man sicced the _Polizei_ on them! So very convenient for us—we no longer need to concern ourselves with the Carmichaels, at least."

" _Fool,"_ Pjeter rasps at him. "Did…you zee…any… _bodies?"_

 

* * *

**A few hours later, upstairs in Chuck's room again**

The craggy-faced Senior Agent Dieter of the _BKA_ , dressed in a light grey tweed jacket, red tie, and grey fedora—has arrived to speak with Chuck and Sarah.

"Your old boss asked me to check in on you," he explains, smiling wryly.

" _And maybe find out what we know?"_ asks Chuck under his breath.

"…Pardon me, Herr Bartowski?"

"Check on us?" Sarah interjects. "I didn't think her 403-g order worked across borders."

"I don't understand…."

"Anyway," she continues, "you're late. We could've used your help a few hours ago."

Dieter frowns. _"Wahrhaftig_ —yes indeed—Frau Bartowski. What happened to both of you on the cruise ship was deeply regrettable."

"So what _about_ that?" Chuck fires back. _"We_ think we know—my wife and I ran afoul of a human-trafficking operation, didn't we?"

"Well…ahhh…" the _BKA_ agent clumsily mumbles.

"All those young female and male servers brought in from small towns," adds Sarah dramatically. "They were told they're training for careers with the cruise line—but they're really being vetted and auctioned for sexual slavery! Isn't that right, Agent Dieter?"

"Ahhh…ummm…"

"It's the best explanation for what we observed—and why we were treated so ruthlessly," Sarah concludes, and folds her arms smartly across her chest.

"The whole gambling cruise scenario," presses Chuck. "They're using that as some kind of secret pipeline, huh? Is the Captain involved too? And when do they actually deliver the victims to their clients?"

Dieter—reeling from Sarah and Chuck's inquisitory barrage—takes out a handkerchief to mop his suddenly damp brow.

"And I thought _I_ was here to interrogate _you,"_ he admits—with grudging admiration. "Well…Diane did alert me about you both!"

The _BKA_ agent pulls up an empty chair and sits down.

"You have deduced correctly. Pjeter Malota and Ulrich Taschenratte are in the employ of a slavery syndicate with its roots in Eastern Europe. The tourist cruise is but the latest of many different smuggling routes this syndicate has used in order to keep law enforcement at arm's length. But this one will prove to be their last."

"If you're aware of the plot," inquires Sarah, "why haven't you moved on them yet? Doesn't further delay just increase the risk for their victims?"

Dieter shakes his head. "We cannot act until we are certain that we've identified all of the buyers. Not all of the passengers on the _Lorelei_ are guilty. But we have deep-cover operatives on board who will obtain that intel for us very soon."

Chuck and Sarah look at each other and smile knowingly.

"What if you could have the intel _right now?"_ Chuck slyly asks.

Dieter looks surprised. "And how might _that_ be possible, Herr Bartowski?"

"Easy. The baddies are transacting business using a third-generation fortified SQRL system—secure QR codes. Pretty dumb IT strategy, if you ask me."

Chuck tilts his head at the computer terminal by his bedside.

"We managed to capture one of the QR codes, and I've already hacked through it into their primary database."

"You mean—?"

"Yep. I can fix you up with full digital dossiers on all the buyers _and_ all the victims. Right here and right now."

"You _can?"_

"But it'll cost you," Sarah warns.

"I should have guessed," replies Dieter with a deflated sigh. "What is your price?"

"We don't want money," Chuck says. "We just want to know _when, where,_ and _how_ you intend to make your arrests and rescue the victims."

"Why?" Dieter asks. "You _do_ understand that your involvement in this affair is finished. Correct? When you are discharged from the hospital you'll go directly into protective custody with Interpol until our operation is concluded. So why would—"

Sarah's eyes flare.

"Those sons of bitches were ready to torture my husband to _death_ —right in front of me!" she seethes. "All the while keeping _me_ undamaged, thinking they'd sell me off to one of their sleazy clients afterward!"

" _And_ they've got one of our friends," Chuck chimes in.

"And they've got one of our friends," echoes Sarah. "Isn't that reason enough, Agent Dieter?"

Dieter shrugs. "Why not? You will not be able to act on anything I tell you. All right then. The cruise ends in Koblenz the day after tomorrow. The ship is to be re-provisioned and will steam back upriver to Kehl am Rhein with fresh passengers. Normally, the same serving crew would go along with them."

"But not _this_ crew?" asks Chuck.

"Only the few who are truly in the employ of the cruise line or the casino. The traffickers will tell the rest that they have been dismissed, and they are to be bussed back to their home towns and let go. But, of course, these unfortunate young people will instead be taken captive—and there will be all-new victims and new buyers for the return cruise."

"Where are the victims actually handed over to the buyers?"

"We are not certain of that yet," acknowledges Dieter. "We know only that the deal will be done in a private castle somewhere along the Rhine between Mannheim and Koblenz. The problem is that there are dozens of such castles. But our operatives will soon know the correct one—and then we move in to free the captives and arrest all of the buyers and sellers!"

"Sounds like a plan if it works," Chuck says approvingly. "Except that—with the intel we're gonna give you—you _could_ move in on those rat bastards even sooner."

Dieter winks at the Bartowskis. "That is certainly possible."

"We'd be good with that," comments Sarah.

"Well then—would you be so kind as to complete your part of our bargain?" asks the _BKA_ agent as he withdraws a tablet computer from his jacket pocket.

Chuck grins and holds up his own iPad. "I've already transferred everything to this device for a wireless download. Ready to sync when you are, sir!"

* * *

A few minutes later—after Senior Agent Dieter has uploaded all of the Piranha's intel, thanked the Bartowskis for their assistance, and departed—Sarah observes that her husband is sporting a rascally expression all of a sudden.

"Call me crazy," she murmurs while playfully nuzzling his ear, "but I have the distinct feeling that you downloaded something more than just a bunch of digital files onto that poor man's computer."

"Who _—me?"_ Chuck asks in seeming innocence—and counter-nuzzles his beautiful wife and partner.

 

* * *

**Late afternoon, aboard the _Geliebten Lorelei,_ docked in Mannheim**

All over the cruise vessel, the crew is working feverishly to put things back in order before the passengers return. Herr Taschenratte is everywhere: supervising this, ordering that. Behind his back, the crew members wonder and gossip about his mysterious half-day absence and the sizable bandage on his head.

In the galley, Vama and Zora and two other servers are re-shelving cartons and cans of food in a pantry that was shaken up when the Piranha caused the _Lorelei_ to lurch forward. Taschenratte strides into the pantry, his eyes on the screen of a tablet device in his hand. Then he looks up at the servers.

" _Inge…Vama…Zora. Kommen mit mir, die drei von Ihnen. Ich brauche Ihnen Hilfe mit etwas anderes."_ (Subtitled: Come with me, the three of you. I need your help with something else.)

The three attractive young ladies follow the purser out of the pantry, leaving the fourth to continue the work of re-shelving food containers. Vama sneaks a look down into the pocket of her apron—where she has hidden Chuck's iPhone, wrapped in a handkerchief.

Unexpectedly, Taschenratte leads them farther back into the galley, not the dining hall where they normally work. Confused but not overly concerned, they are brought to a large open hatchway leading from the boat to the dock alongside. A tractor-trailer has been backed up to the hatchway. The interior of the trailer is dark, and it appears to be empty.

Taschenratte, looking down at his tablet computer, casually points into the open trailer with his thumb.

" _Gehen hinein, bitte. Gibt es mehr zu entladen."_ (Subtitled: Go inside, please. There's more to unload.)

Vama is the closest to the trailer. She takes a step toward it—then hesitates, sensing a faint but strange chemical odor inside. The other two servers don't move.

" _Jetzt!"_ Taschenratte barks at them. (Subtitled: Now!)

He grabs Zora by the shoulders and shoves her into the darkened interior of the trailer. The younger Romani girl tumbles to her knees inside and screams in fear. Reflexively, Vama gives an anguished cry and leaps in after her. Taschenratte turns smartly on his heels, seizes the third girl, Inge, and tosses her in as well. Then he steps clear as invisible jets of gas begin to _hissssss_ inside the trailer….

 

* * *

**Not long after that—in Chuck's hospital room**

Chuck's discharge from the hospital is swift and efficient—very German. The surgeon inspects his bandaged wound once more and declares him ready to go. Then, after Chuck has changed into clean street clothes provided by the local Red Cross, an orderly brings him a digital clipboard with forms to sign. Finally, two nurses arrive to present Chuck with the choice of a wheelchair ride or a stylish steel cane.

He opts for the cane—insisting, "I want out of here on my own power."

"Okay," replies Sarah, "but the question is how far out of here we'll actually get."

Not far at all, they discover. The two city policemen who had been standing guard in the hallway are gone—replaced by the Interpol agents who were promised by Special Agent Dieter: two men, short but muscular; one bald and one with a full head of brown hair; both with rather stern facial expressions…two _very familiar_ Interpol agents!

The bald agent already has a tranq pistol aimed at them. Chuck and Sarah stand stunned, as the second agent steps up and smartly handcuffs their wrists together.

_(Flashback to Chuck and Sarah, as 'Mr. and Mrs. Charles,' mistakenly drugging these same two operatives in the dining car of a Swiss train…and later, knocking them cold on a station platform in order to evade arrest….)_

"As soon as we saw your photos," says the Interpol agent holding the tranq pistol, "we specifically requested this assignment."

"Because we owe you," adds his partner.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck—but if I did, this thing I'm writing might be a screenplay instead of a fanfic.

**Fourth day, at dusk, on the Rhine River waterfront in Mannheim**

The _Geliebten Lorelei_ sidles quietly away from its berth with a depleted crew and half of its original passenger manifest. There are more people standing on the dock gawking at the suddenly infamous vessel than there are on deck waving goodbye.

Just on the edge of the scene, a grey Magirus Deutz tractor-trailer idles. At the front end of the trailer—labeled _Delikatesse_ _Schiffs-Provisioning_ —a small compressor throbs, pumping fresh air into the interior. Two men sit quietly in the cab. Nobody in the crowd gives this ordinary-looking truck a second glance.

The driver is the henchman who held a pistol on Chuck in the dank depths of the _Lorelei_ the previous night. The passenger is his burly, mercurial boss Pjeter Malota—now subdued, with his movements and voice drastically constrained by the cervical collar around the dislocated neck that Sarah dealt him.

Pjeter's eyes alone betray his seething, bottled-up anger.

 

* * *

**Later, on the bridge of the _Geliebten Lorelei_**

Keeping one eye on the helmsman who is easing the big ship into the middle of the river channel, Captain Stübing talks with his purser, Herr Taschenratte, in grim-toned, English-subtitled German.

("I'm not pleased about having to depart with so many servers gone. I can understand why some of the passengers cancelled—but so many crew as well? Couldn't you convince them to stay, Ulrich?")

("Truly sorry, sir…but no. As you know many were trainees, and last night's mishap seems to have spooked them. As soon as we docked, they picked up their duffels and walked off. I could do nothing about it.")

Stübing frowns. Taschenratte pats him on the back, pretending to commiserate, acting as if he's just as unhappy as the Captain is by the loss of the crew.

("But don't worry, sir. We will make do—and remember, we're only two days out from a fresh supply of serving staff!")

 

* * *

**Meanwhile, not far from where the _Lorelei_ departed**

The _Barockschloss Mannheim_ —Mannheim Baroque Palace—former home of German princes—is a magnificent eighteenth-century structure that sprawls along the right bank of the river, with five multi-story wings in yellow and ocher surrounding a great cobblestone courtyard. It's a popular tourist attraction—and as such, it suffers plenty of wear and tear, and needs regular maintenance.

After the front gates clang shut and the palace closes for the night, a small procession of construction vehicles rumbles into the scene and proceeds toward the back of the complex. The workers move their equipment into position: a haul truck full of gravel, a milling machine, a small tanker with compressed propane needed to melt asphalt, and a steamroller labeled _Stadt Mannheim_ —City of Mannheim.

With their equipment in place for an early-morning job, the workers depart. But the foreman stays behind until another truck pulls up. The newly arrived vehicle is the grey Magirus Deutz semi, with Pjeter and his henchman in the tractor cab, and an unknown cargo in the attached trailer.

_(Music: "Chuck Action Music Track 13," by Tim Jones)_

The henchman-driver stops his truck, rolls down his window, and gives the foreman a thumbs-up signal. The foreman waves and immediately leaves the work site.

Following orders Pjeter issues in a strangled, whispery voice, the henchman leaves the cab and climbs aboard the steamroller, finding the starter key left in place most conveniently. He starts up the bulky machine and rumbles it backward away from the work site, clearing a path into the middle. Then he returns to the semi and drives into the midst of the other equipment, where it blends in reasonably well.

The henchman leaves the tractor-trailer parked there and goes to start up the propane tanker, which is emblazoned all over with bright red-and-white _Gefahr!_ (Danger!) placards. He brings the load of inflammable gas ominously close to the parked _Delikatesse_ _Schiffs-Provisioning_ trailer…and attaches a small remote detonator to the side of the tank!

Meanwhile, Pjeter descends from the cab of the Magirus Deutz semi—slowly and painstakingly, so as not to jiggle his aching neck. He trudges slowly toward an unlit brick-walled entranceway behind the _Barockschloss,_ with a pistol on his hip and the control for the remote detonator in his pocket. After the henchman is finished with the propane tanker, he returns to the cab and takes out an automatic rifle. He slings the gun over his shoulder and follows Pjeter to his place of concealment behind the palace.

The mysterious tractor-trailer sits with its compressor still throbbing and huffing…camouflaged but very much in harm's way.

 

* * *

**Still later, in a Mannheim high-rise hotel**

Interpol has sequestered Chuck, Sarah, Morgan, Alex, Jeff, and Lester in a suite high up in a comfortable but no-frills hotel tower. The rest of the rooms on their floor have been vacated; the elevator has been locked down; and the hallway outside the suite is being guarded by four of Mannheim's toughest uniformed police officers.

Inside the suite, the two Interpol agents in charge restlessly prowl around, looking grumpy and unfriendly with tranq pistols and Tasers at the ready on their belts. They say very little, glowering at Chuck and Sarah from time to time—but always keeping a good distance from either of them!

Not that the Bartowskis, who sit calmly together on a sofa sipping coffee, appear to pose any threat. They've been inobtrusively casing the suite and all the potential escape routes, and sharing their observations with subtle nudges, nods, and an occasional soft whisper.

It's much livelier in a bedroom off the main suite…where Jeff, Lester, and Morgan are sprawled out on the bed and surrounding floor, all with their eyes fixed on a high-def TV. They're watching a _Counter-Strike: Global Offensive_ gaming tournament playing on _Twitch TV,_ and cheering in full throat. Alex is there too, but standing at the window, holding an empty coffee mug, alternately gazing in frustration at the city outside and glaring in annoyance at her mindlessly distracted boyfriend.

After a while, Alex's displeasure gets the better of her silent sulking.

"You know…I always thought it was a big waste of time to _play_ those dumb games for hours on end," she snidely proclaims. "But watching _other people_ play them is even worse!"

"What _else_ can we do?" Jeff retorts without turning away from the screen. "Our jailers won't let us use the controller!"

"And besides— _you're_ watching _us,_ aren't you baby?" Morgan tosses back at her.

Alex looks ready to clobber him for that…but instead, she tries another tack.

"Umm…Lester? May I ask you something?" she begins.

"Fire away, babe," Lester replies, without taking his eyes off the screen.

" _Hey!"_ Morgan elbows him. "What'd you just call her?"

Alex ignores her boyfriend and continues to address Lester.

"Why'd you send us that DVD calling for help, anyway? The two of you seem to be doing just fine here in Germany."

"Yeah—what _about_ that?" Jeff demands, frowning at his friend. "That seems pretty ungrateful, what with all the good things Herr Schinken's doing for us—even lining up a major sponsor for our—"

Lester startles everyone by indignantly bolting up from the floor!

" _That's just it!"_ he cries. "That's _exactly_ it! Our _sponsor,_ Jeff? Our sponsor is the _Schmecktgut Wurst_ Company! I can't _believe_ that none of you gets it—especially you, Jeff—you're s'posed to know me better than that!"

"What?" asks Morgan impatiently. "Sausages? What're you talkin' about?"

Awareness suddenly breaks out on Jeff's face—but not before Lester throws his arms out, looks beseechingly up at the ceiling, and bellows:

"I'm a _Hinjew!_ A pious and dutiful son of both the Hindu _and_ Hebrew persuasions! How can I in good conscience toil for a purveyor of _beef and pork products?"_

Everyone else in the room is stunned into silence—and just at that moment, somebody in the hallway outside knocks forcefully on the door to the suite.

The bald Interpol agent exchanges a few words through the door with whoever it is in the hallway, and then reluctantly opens the door. A fresh-faced young man bounds into the suite with Sarah's and Chuck's suitcases in hand!

" _Finally!"_ exclaims Sarah, rising from the sofa in delight.

"You must have a friend at the _BKA,"_ the bald agent snaps at her—making a special effort to spit out the three-letter acronym in a very sarcastic and disrespectful way. The fresh-faced agent doesn't seem to notice or care—but Sarah and Chuck do, and they shoot each other quick, knowing glances.

"The ship captain was led to believe you were killed," says the young man. "So, he released your personal effects to us. Our agent-in-charge—that's Dieter; I believe you met him already _—ja?—_ he thought you might like to have these back."

"We do—please thank him for us!" replies Chuck, leaning on his cane to lift himself from the sofa. "Can we get our tech and weapons back too?"

"Don't push it," barks the long-haired Interpol agent from across the room. "And remember, _they're_ not in charge of you— _we_ are!"

The young BKA agent snorts softly at him and smiles at Chuck and Sarah.

"I'm sure you will get the rest of your equipment back. In due time of course. _Auf wiedersehen!"_ He departs with a friendly salute.

" _Wiedersehen,"_ Sarah replies, then turns to their Interpol minders.

"Would you gentlemen mind if my husband and I make use of the master bed and bath for a little while? Now that I've got a change of clothes, I'd like to freshen up."

The long-haired agent eyes her suspiciously—but acquiesces. "Suit yourself."

"Great. C'mon sweetie—let's go take a shower. We can change your bandage too."

Chuck winks at her—and before his wife can stop him, he drops his steel cane and picks up the two suitcases.

"No, Chuck—you're hurt!" But he's already hobbling into the master bedroom, carrying both bags. Sarah snatches up the cane and chases after him, closing and locking the bedroom door behind them. She rolls her eyes at her always-gallant husband, then heads into the bathroom and turns the shower on—full force and loud.

"Good thinking, babe," Chuck says. "This way it's safe to talk openly."

"Yeah," replies Sarah, "but we both _really_ need a shower too! I mean— _I've_ been in this _same damn dress_ since that awful party yesterday night!"

She turns around so that he can unzip the aforementioned dress. The two of them shed their clothes casually and quickly. Sarah takes her husband's arm and helps him limp into the steamy glass-walled shower with her.

"Don't let the water spray directly on your stitches," she admonishes him.

"I'll try my best."

As Chuck reaches for a bar of soap and starts lathering his wife's lissome back and shoulders, he asks her, "You're worried, aren't you?"

"Uh huh. You?"

"Well…it's not our mission and I gotta hope that Dieter and his team are on top of things. But…still…I keep thinking that Vama and Zora might be in danger."

"Me too," Sarah says with a sigh, as she leans into the spray to rinse off the suds.

"Wish we at least could know when they're gonna make their move on Taschenratte and Malota."

"I did see where they've hidden your iPad and my phone," says Sarah, holding her hand out for the bar of soap. "They're locked in the in-room safe. If I had just forty-five seconds to work with…."

"Got any ideas?" asks Chuck, as Sarah soaps up his chest.

She shakes her head. "Nothing that doesn't include injuring one—or probably both—of our minders."

"Hmm. I'd like to avoid that, 'cause without our active Agency status, we might get in _real_ trouble this time. Land in jail or something."

"Roger that," Sarah concurs.

"And besides…I kinda pity those two guys. They seem really frustrated being stuck in here, keeping an eye on us while the big deal is going down out on the river."

Sarah's eyes brighten with an inspiration.

"Maybe we can use that frustration to our advantage."

"Psyops?" asks Chuck with a smile. "What do you have in mind, babe?"

"Well, we _both_ noticed there's no love lost between our two Interpol agents and the BKA. So let's start with that…."

The Bartowskis quietly hash out a plan as they take turns using soap and shampoo on each other. By the time they've finished washing up, they've got a plan.

Chuck turns off the water and starts to slide the shower door open.

"Wait." Sarah takes hold of his hand and presses it firmly against her wet, warm, still flat abdomen. "Maybe I'm imagining it—but I thought I just felt a heartbeat."

 

* * *

**Still later, some distance downriver**

Near the old city of Worms, an imposing castle built by a medieval warrior prince guards the left bank of the Rhine. Its once-harsh façade is today mellowed by strings of festive hanging red-and-silver lights that give the castle a Christmassy look the year around.

BKA Senior Agent Dieter keeps watch on a balcony high up on the castle wall. Night-vision binoculars give him a commanding view of the river and the approaching _Geliebten Lorelei_ —while the bright lights strung beneath his perch make it impossible for anyone to spot him by looking up. His tablet computer—the one to which Chuck uploaded the human-trafficking files—is on the parapet in front of him. His black-garbed and well-armed tactical team is deployed in Zodiac boats along the riverbank, awaiting his order to strike!

 

* * *

**On board the _Geliebten Lorelei_**

The floating casino is much quieter with fewer patrons. Grady Lightfoot is steadfast, though. Drink in hand, he plays blackjack against the dealer at an otherwise empty table. Cherise Lightfoot hovers nearby, watching casino manager Karin Klemeyer, who stands at the door to a windowless private gaming room across the casino floor.

Klemeyer keeps eyes on a number of scattered patrons who are keeping eyes on her. Every now and then, the manager subtly nods…and a solo gambler here, a couple over there, break away from whatever game they're playing and meander over to the private room. Cherise mentally logs them: a Dutch businessman…the Emirati couple from the Captain's party…a Chinese woman in a sleek powder-blue evening gown….

Finally, it is the Lightfoots' turn. Cherise taps Grady on the shoulder. He finishes his game, downs the rest of his drink, then holds out his arm and escorts his wife toward the mysterious room. They're the last couple in—Klemeyer follows and locks the door behind them. Just inside, Klemeyer's barrel-chested assistant collects the Lightfoots' smart phones and directs them to pass through a metal detector, which finds no weapons.

The other buyers are seated impassively around a long baize-covered table. Cards and chips are stacked neatly atop it—just for cover, as nobody is touching them. Cherise and Grady take the last two empty seats at the table.

Taschenratte has been standing at the far end, holding a thick manila envelope. His head bandage is gone, but the lump on the back of his head is still apparent. Directly behind him is a portable bulletin board—one that looks as if it had just been borrowed from an elementary-school classroom. Now that all of his customers are present, he begins to speak.

"Regretfully we have had to change the schedule because our QR-code system may no longer be trustworthy. But please be assured that we will conclude our transactions on time and securely…the old low-tech way."

The purser-trafficker turns smartly on his heels toward the bulletin board, digs into the manila envelope, and begins to remove five-by-eight-inch, black-and-white photos of all the unfortunate young people he intends to sell into slavery—including Vama and Zora. Each photo has a number scrawled in black marker in the upper right corner, and a printed message on the back. Taschenratte sticks each photo up on the bulletin board with velcro.

"We will accept the last bids submitted before our system was lost," he says, without turning around. "Winning bidders are indicated by the numbers on the front. On the back of each print are the instructions on how you can claim your purchase after funds are transferred. For your convenience, we will dock briefly near Worms later tonight."

Grumbles and mutters arise from the table. The Emirati man politely raises his hand.

"Excuse me, Herr Ulrich? Do you mean to say the merchandise is no longer present on the vessel itself?"

"That…is correct, sir. We deemed it prudent to move it…uh, _them_ …to a more secure site."

The grumbles get louder and many of the customers are frowning in displeasure. Cherise leans toward her husband and whispers something in his ear. Grady nods, gets up from the table, and starts toward the door. The barrel-chested man steps into his path to intercept him.

"Iss zere a problem, Herr Lightfoot?"

"Eyup midduck," Grady replies, grinning and turning up two empty palms. "Got nowt ter quanch a thirst. Just gonna pop out to the tap'n get mesen a drink—izzat alrate?"

The big man gives him an apologetic look but doesn't yield.

"I'm sorry _mein Herr,_ but no vun iss to leave zis room until—"

The rest of his sentence is swallowed up when—yet again!—sirens begin to _shriek_ all over the ship!

" _Siehst was is los!"_ Klemeyer orders her assistant. (Subtitled: Go see what's going on!)

 

* * *

**At the same time, in the hotel**

Sarah makes the initial move…gliding into the suite kitchen, killer sexy in a fresh jet-black evening dress with her hair, makeup, and eyes all done up perfectly. At the kitchen table, where the bald Interpol agent sits by himself, glumly drinking black coffee, she takes a seat on the opposite side and gives him an unexpected look of sympathy, bordering on pity.

The agent just laughs at her.

"You must be planning a _real_ hot date—in front of the TV! But you'll have to chase your greasy little minions away first."

He nods toward the side room, where the "minions" have already moved beyond Lester's crisis of conscience and are again absorbed in watching gaming competitions on _Twitch._

"Yeah…right." Sarah looks directly into the agent's eyes. "You know, I don't think you and your partner actually volunteered for this assignment."

She shakes her head. "I mean—really? Baby-sitting us?"

The bald agent chuckles and takes another sip of coffee. "Doesn't really matter, does it? We're here. End of story."

"While all the _action_ is going on elsewhere," Sarah ripostes, and looks meaningfully up at a digital clock on the wall. "Or—maybe just about to start. Either way, it's going down while you and your partner are stuck in some cheap-ass hotel with six Americans you can't even stand."

The agent just shrugs—eliciting a little bit of a sneer from Sarah.

"So you're saying I'm wrong?" she needles him. "You're an Interpol operative and you're fine with doing the menial labor for the BKA?"

The big man abruptly ( _zunk!)_ _slams_ down his coffee mug!

" _And whose fault is this?"_ he thunders. "Have you forgotten what happened in Pundtun two years ago? _We_ have not! We have not been _permitted_ to forget it!"

"You tricked us out of our prisoner," adds the long-haired agent as he joins them in the kitchen. "Then you stole our mission and all of the glory for your CIA—leaving _us_ unconscious on a train platform!"

"Did you _even once_ wonder what happened to us after that?" the bald agent demands. "Did you ever consider what your American cowboy actions would have done to _our_ service record?"

He gestures grandiosely around the spare room. "Well—now you can see!"

"If you're expecting an apology for doing _our_ job better than _you_ did yours," Sarah tosses back at him, "don't hold your breath!"

The bald agent nods and replies, "But of course. So we'll simply take solace in the fact that you two hotshot ex-CIA field agents must be just as frustrated by all this as we two Interpol agents are. Because _you'd_ rather be out there too— _no?"_

Sarah says nothing—only frowns.

" _Touché,"_ crows the long-haired agent.

Just then, as planned, Chuck appears—looking most dapper in his last undamaged and unwrinkled suit jacket and tie.

"That's it, then?" he challenges the Interpol men. "We're all just gonna sit tight and drink coffee together—and let the BKA take care of business?"

"Which they'll likely screw up," hisses the bald agent.

"If they do," Chuck soberly replies, "then a whole lot of innocent young people are going to be in very grave danger."

"What can _we_ do about that from here?"

"We can at least listen in on their comms. Make sure nothing goes south. And if it does, maybe we'd be in a position to help."

"And how do we _do that?"_

Chuck and Sarah exchange quick _gotcha_ glances.

"Let me have my iPad back. I planted a 48-hour tracking cookie in Agent Dieter's network that'll let me tap into his transmissions and pinpoint his location."

"Why would you do that?" asks the bald Interpol agent.

Chuck taps his own chest. _"Ex-spy_ —remember? And maybe I have my doubts about the BKA's plan too. Gimme my iPad and let's see if we're right."

The bald agent hems and haws. "That…uh…would be a _serious_ breach of protocol."

"But it would also serve them right!" counters the long-haired agent. "I see no harm in us simply listening in on their deployment!"

He heads for the closet, where Chuck's devices are locked in the room safe.

The bald agent gapes at Chuck and Sarah—and, in all seriousness, asks, "Are the two of you still CIA then?"

 

* * *

**Back to the _Geliebten Lorelei_**

As the sirens continue to wail, Karin Klemeyer's barrel-chested assistant bursts back into the private room.

"Das Boot _is being boarded! It iss a raid!"_

_(Music: "High Ball Stepper," by Jack White)_

Pandemonium immediately ensues! The buyers bolt up from the gaming table and hurl themselves toward the door—the only way out of the room. The barrel-chested man, still standing in the doorway, reflexively tries to hold them back. Taschenratte ignores them, instead pointing frantically at the bulletin board and barking at Klemeyer:

" _Schnell!_ Take all these photographs back down—and destroy them!"

" _I beg to differ! Leave them right where they are, please, dear!"_

Cherise Lightfoot is aiming a handgun at Taschenratte—and her husband has a similar gun pointed at the crowd of sleazy slave-buyers jammed in front of the doorway.

"Now everyone return to your seats and sit tight," Grady demands, waving his pistol to herd the frightened buyers back from the only exit.

He winks at the barrel-chested man. " _'No vun iss to leave zis room'…_ eh, mi duck?"

" _Herr und Frau Lightfoot!"_ Klemeyer exclaims in surprise. "No, no—this cannot be!"

" _How did they get those guns in here?"_ Taschenratte shrieks at the casino manager.

But even as the evil purser raises his hands in seeming surrender, he's got a smartphone clutched in one of them….

_(Music continues: "High Ball Stepper," by Jack White)_

* * *

Seconds later—when a team of well-armed BKA agents led by the craggy-faced Senior Agent Dieter bursts into the room—Taschenratte looks unaccountably smug.

"Before you do anything else," he warns ominously, "better have a look at _this!"_

He carefully lowers his hands and holds out the smartphone. Mystified, Agent Dieter swipes the phone from his grasp.

On the small screen, Pjeter Malota smiles malignantly at him. Then he slowly sweeps his own phone's camera around to reveal the back end of a tractor-trailer with its doors open. Inside, all of the kidnapped young servers from the _Geliebten Lorelei_ are seated on the floor with their backs to the walls—chained together, blindfolded, and either asleep or unconscious—but breathing; still alive.

Pjeter moves the phone a bit farther to display his makeshift bomb: the propane tanker fitted with the blinking remote detonator, close enough to vaporize the entire trailer if it's set off!

Agent Dieter's face goes ashen.

"So. We will negotiate," offers Taschenratte.

 

* * *

**In the hotel**

Chuck, Sarah, and the two Interpol agents huddle around Chuck's iPad on the kitchen table, listening as a calmly paced stream of terse German suddenly goes all non-linear.

"What are they saying?" asks Chuck—prudently opting not to flash on German in plain sight of their minders.

"The kids were taken hostage," Sarah grimly replies. "And the BKA doesn't know where they are! But maybe _we_ do—right, sweetie?"

"Keep your fingers crossed." Chuck opens a new window on the iPad screen to run the _Find my iPhone_ app. And his iPhone, last seen in Vama's possession, promptly pings him back, from—

"The _Barockschloss?"_ asks the long-haired Interpol agent incredulously. "That is only a few city blocks from here!"


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I absolutely own no part of Chuck—but does anyone happen to know where I could buy some?

**Just after midnight on day five, and very near the _Barockschloss Mannheim_**

Chuck, Sarah, and the Interpol agents have gotten as close to their quarry as they can without risking detection—they're hiding behind the big steel rollers of the City of Mannheim steamroller parked on the periphery of the false construction site. The Bartowskis are sharing a single pair of night-vision binoculars from the spy van, and take turns peering very carefully around the side of the machine, sizing up the situation.

They're both still wearing the formal attire they had on in the hotel, and Chuck is leaning lightly on his steel cane to take some of the load off of his wounded leg.

The tractor-trailer and jury-rigged propane bomb are about fifty meters directly in front of them. Another twenty meters or so off to one side, the shadowy silhouettes of Pjeter and his henchman are visible in an entranceway at the rear of the Baroque Palace. But they're only visible from the shoulders up, as they're mostly shielded by a brick wall extending out from the building. Even so, it's easy to see that Pjeter is agitated: shuffling and pacing in circles just as much as his injured neck lets him move about. His henchman dutifully follows him, holding a phone to the side of his boss's head so that he can carry on a conversation.

The bald Interpol agent, standing alongside Sarah and Chuck, is also on the phone, talking softly with his superiors. Eventually, he ends the call and turns to the others.

"The BKA has a team enroute—ETA is fifteen minutes," he informs them. "And backup from Interpol will be here in twelve or so. I've been designated the agent-in-charge."

He grins at Chuck and Sarah. "Oh—and as far as they all know, the two of you are still in your hotel suite—so kindly do your best not to get us in any new trouble."

Chuck grins at that, and Sarah asks, "What are our—umm, _your_ —orders?"

"Stay concealed, keep watch…but be ready to take Malota out if he looks about to detonate that bomb."

"How can we know whether he is or not, from over here?" grumbles the long-haired agent, who is holding a rifle.

"Well I don't think he'll do it," suggests Sarah. "The hostages are his only bargaining chip. Not only with the BKA, but his own syndicate bosses too. They're probably none too pleased with him or Taschenratte now. I wouldn't be surprised if he's playing both sides for some kind of deal."

"Smart thinking, babe," notes Chuck in appreciation, as he subtly reaches down to squeeze his wife's hand. "And not only that, but look how close to the tanker those two are standing."

"Maybe the trigger requires line-of-sight?" asks the bald agent.

"Could be—but it also means that if Pjeter _really_ intends to blow it up, first he'll have to move farther away, and that'd be a signal to us."

"I hope that you're right," the bald agent says fervently. "But as long as Malota holds the trigger, I'd feel better if we had a clear shot at him."

" _I_ could get a clear shot—from above them," asserts Sarah. "From either of the two floors directly above that doorway. Take another look, sweetie."

Chuck peeks around the back of the steamroller once more with the infrared binoculars. He confirms Sarah's observation: there are indeed two stories of darkened windows extending directly above the heads of their antagonists.

"Looks good," he says. "If you break into the Palace and get up to the second or third floor, you'd have the high ground and the drop on both of 'em."

"Shouldn't take me more than four minutes," says Sarah. "Maybe three, if the alarm system's not too hard to override."

Chuck taps the earbud in his right ear. "You got that, Morgan? I need you to access the BKA database and find the alarm-system blueprints for the Baroque Palace."

His order startles both of the Interpol agents.

( _"I'm on it, boss,"_ transmits Morgan from the inside of the Sprinter spy van, which is parked a few blocks away.)

"Hey—didn't you say you were only going to monitor their communications?" asks the long-haired agent, sounding concerned. "What's this about hacking into their database?"

Chuck shrugs. "Change is situational, guys. Just roll with us on this one."

"We seem to have no choice," the bald agent-in-charge concludes, then turns to address his partner:

"Right then. While Frau Carmichael moves into position, I want you to circle around back of the _Barockschloss_ to intercept any escape attempts in that direction."

The long-haired agent nods in agreement.

"And I will station myself close to the trailer," continues the bald agent. "That way, if the situation…deteriorates…there might be enough time for me to shoot the lock off the doors and free the hostages before the bomb explodes. If luck is with us."

"Hopefully it doesn't come to that," says Sarah.

"Amen," adds Chuck.

"But they're keeping a constant watch on the trailer," the long-haired agent argues. "How will you get close without being seen?"

"I know how," says Chuck decisively. "We need a _Magnet_ —and that would be _me!"_

Sarah _gulps_ and grabs his right arm.

" _No,_ Chuck—it's too risky! You can barely walk, let alone run!"

"Exactly. So I won't seem much of a threat to 'em."

"I still don't like it. Pjeter's just too violent, too unpredictable!"

"What's a Magnet?" asks the long-haired Interpol agent.

"A distraction. I can walk out there and draw their attention to me."

"You really think _that_ would be a good idea?"

" _No!"_ Sarah cuts in. "Is anyone even _listening_ to me?"

"Well…it would also let me get a close look at the triggering device that Pjeter's using, and maybe the detonator too. Who knows—I might have to disarm it in a hurry. It so happens I'm pretty good at that stuff."

"Now it makes a little bit more sense," the bald agent says. "Just a little, though."

"That's good enough for me," replies Chuck.

Sarah sighs deeply. "All right…okay…but _only_ if _I_ get into position first. _And_ …I want you to wear a vest!"

"Where would we get—" the bald agent starts to complain, until he's cut short by Alex's reply in each of their earpieces:

_("We brought one with us! It's right here in the van!")_

"Great," replies Sarah. "Have Morgan bring it over here right away. But carefully!"

 _("He's busy searching for the alarm specs,"_ says Alex _. "I'll come bring it to you.")_

"Negative," Sarah fires back. "We can't let you. We made a promise to your dad."

 _("Ummm…well then_ that _just leaves us with…uhhh….")_

There's an awkwardly protracted pause…during which everyone can hear the excited voices of Jeff and Lester in the background, imploring Morgan and Alex to _Let us help! Let us go! We can do it!_

Chuck mutes his earpiece and mutters to Sarah, "Tell me again why we didn't just leave the two of them back in the hotel."

"You mean without any adult supervision?"

" _Riiiight._ That's why."

* * *

Barely a minute passes before Lester and Jeff come running with the gunmetal-grey Kevlar-and-ceramic vest. Panting excitedly like two retriever puppies, they crowd in with the others behind the big steamroller.

" _Here you go! See, we did it! We're still ace spies like you, right? What's the plan?"_

" _Ssssh!"_ the long-haired Interpol agent hisses, and puts a finger to his lips.

"Thanks, boys," says Sarah quietly as she slips Chuck's tie off, then takes the proffered vest from Jeff.

Chuck shucks his suit jacket, and Sarah carefully fastens the protective garment around her beloved's upper body. She double-checks and triple-checks it to make sure it's fully secure. Then she gives Chuck a brave smile—even as tears well up in her eyes.

"It's all right, babe," he tells her tenderly. "You know I've been in a lot riskier situations than this. Are _you_ okay?"

"Must be the hormones," Sarah answers with a little sniffle.

Chuck slips his jacket back on—a bit of a tight fit, but it works.

 _("Found the specs,"_ Morgan breaks in. _"Sarah, I can talk you through the disarm when you get to the alarm box at the service door.")_

"Good—thanks, Morgan," Sarah replies. Then, with worry tensing her beautiful face, she throws her arms around Chuck's neck.

" _You better be careful,"_ she whispers in his ear.

He chuckles, and whispers back, _"Of course I will. See you in a few minutes."_

" _It'll be a damn long few minutes."_

They kiss—and then Sarah slips away into the black night, soundlessly sprinting toward the front of the _Barockschloss._ The two Interpol agents sneak off in opposite directions, leaving Jeff and Lester behind with Chuck.

"What do we do now?" asks Jeff.

"Can we stay here and watch?" asks Lester.

"You _do_ realize that's a full tanker of highly inflammable propane, don't you?"

"But aren't we safe behind this cold metal beast?" Lester softly taps _(pinnk!)_ on the hefty rear roller of the hulking Mannheim steamroller that conceals them.

"Can't guarantee it…but yeah, probably."

"And you might still need our help, so we should stay!"

Chuck starts to shake his head no…then thinks better of it.

"Guess I really can't stop you anyway," he reasons. "So okay. But please— _please!—_ stay right here and keep quiet. _Really_ quiet! Yours are _not_ the only lives that might depend on it."

He hands the night-vision binoculars to Jeff. "And if Sarah or I happen to yell for you to do something—like maybe, _run!—_ you _do it!_ Without thinking. Without hesitation. We got a deal?"

Ecstatic, Jeff and Lester together reply, _"Deal!"_

" _Ssssh!"_ Chuck hisses at them, frantically making downward waving motions with his hands. "Not so loud!"

 

* * *

**Five minutes later**

" _Was verdammt!"_ cries Pjeter's henchman at the sudden sight of Chuck: limping his way through the fake construction site in their direction, steadying himself with his cane, and waving a white handkerchief high over his head.

The henchman starts to raise his rifle, but Pjeter holds out a shaky hand to stop him.

" _I just wanna talk!"_ Chuck hollers at them, stopping momentarily. _"I'm unarmed!"_

" _Unarmed? You're supposed to be_ drowned _, you geek!"_ retorts the henchman.

" _Then I'd be a ghost of a geek—and a ghost can't harm you, can it? So may I join you two gentlemen...? You haven't shot me yet, so I'll take that as a yes!"_

Chuck resumes his inelegant hobble forward.

* * *

(From above, concealed in a darkened third-floor room in the _Barockschloss,_ her nose pressed to the window and her long-barreled pistol in hand, very much on edge, Sarah alertly watches her husband draw steadily nearer to the two bad guys.)

* * *

Pjeter smiles and growls something indecipherable in Chuck's direction.

"What'd he just say?"

"Herr Malota asked you: how does your leg feel?"

"Fantastic!" replies Chuck. "Thanks for asking! Guess I don't have to ask _you_ how your _neck's_ doing!"

Pjeter starts to laugh at the retort—then quietly winces at the pain that causes him.

When Chuck gets to within about three meters of him, Pjeter wheezes, "Close…enough…"

"Nice vest you got," says the henchman, who then casually points his rifle up toward Chuck's head.

Chuck stops in his tracks, stuffs the handkerchief in his jacket pocket, and leans forward on his cane, studying the two men.

Pjeter eyeballs him back. "Zo…you _are_ a spy…or… _Polizei?_ BKA…zent to…help negotiate…?"

"Something like that. You must know that your phone call's been traced. And that there'll be a whole lot of well-armed agents all over the place in just minutes."

"Not…vorried about…zat."

The muscular blond sneers at Chuck and holds out the triggering device at arm's length to taunt him… _bingo!_ Chuck _flashes_ on it, and in just a half-second the Human Intersect inerrantly identifies the device…and how it works.

"Would you _really_ kill all those innocent kids?" asks Chuck angrily.

The question gives Pjeter pause, but then he says, "If…if I had to, _ja."_

Then he displays his smartphone in his other hand.

"Fortunately…your superiors….vant to deal with us. Zo. I…expect a return…call…any minute now."

Clearly visible to Chuck—but out of Pjeter's sight—the expression on the henchman's face gets much darker.

" _Und_ …vere is Frau…Carmichael?" Pjeter asks.

"She prefers to avoid confrontation."

Another laugh and another pained wince from Pjeter.

"I suspect…not. She…is nearby. Maybe I vill… _heh!...confront_ her once more, _ja?_ Repay...her...for zis!" He points to his bulky cervical collar.

"If you _ever_ see her again," growls Chuck, "it'll be from behind the bars of a prison cell!"

"Don't be so...sure…I…may…be out of the country…very zoon…." Pjeter looks at the screen of his phone in anticipation.

Curiously, his henchman unobtrusively lowers his rifle, rests it against his side, and unlatches the strap of a holstered handgun on his belt. Pjeter still hasn't noticed anything, but Chuck tenses for a fight-or-flight response.

Suddenly the phone buzzes! This time, Pjeter creakily lifts it to his ear himself. He converses softly—barely above a whisper—in German, for about a minute. Then he hangs up and grins victoriously.

"Ze deal is done!" he rasps, his strained voice nearly cracking. "Ulrich…is going to testify…against the syndicate…for a reduced zentence… _und_ go into vitness protection. So…shall…I!"

"That's a deal way sweeter than _you_ deserve," says Chuck scornfully.

"I couldn't agree more," the henchman snaps—then yanks the pistol from his holster, whirls…and _(BLAMM!)_ shoots Pjeter point-blank in the chest!

Pjeter topples onto his back on the cold pavement: eyes confused, mouth agape.

Momentarily paralyzed by uncertainty, Chuck looks on as the henchman-turned-assassin steps astride his boss and points the gun at his forehead.

"Herr Malota, we no longer require your services." _(BLAMM!)_ The assassin calmly bends to reach for the triggering device in the dead man's pocket….

Then _—(BASSSH!—tinkle!—tinkle!)—_ Sarah smashes out the window in front of her and aims her own pistol down at the assassin!

" _Freeze! And drop that gun!"_

"Ohhh—not so fast madame!" He brandishes the bomb trigger, with his thumb hovering over the button, ready to activate it!

"To the contrary— _you_ drop _your_ gun! Out the window, of course."

Sarah glares at him for a moment—then reluctantly lets go of her weapon. It lands directly beneath her with an ominous _clunk!_

"You are most accommodating. _Machs gut,_ my dear!"

With surprising speed, the assassin raises his own gun and _(POWW!)_ fires a shot directly at her!

Chuck _gasps_ and looks up in horror at the now-vacant third-floor window. Then he lunges vehemently at the assassin—but he's hobbled by his thigh wound, and the man brutally knocks him over with the butt of his pistol. He grins evilly down at Chuck.

"Just a couple more loose ends to tie up, Herr Carmichael—then I'll be on my way."

 _He presses the trigger!_ Red LEDs flash on the device, and the detonator on the propane tanker comes to life!

"No—you can't!" Chuck scrambles to his feet and grabs for the triggering device, but the assassin manages to hold him back just long enough to hurl the device away—over a high retaining wall _—gone!_

While over at the tanker, the display on the detonator reads _88_ seconds _…87…86…_

Chuck desperately grapples with the assassin as he fights to work his gun arm free...he shoves Chuck backwards and points the gun at our hero's face—but just then Sarah pops back into the window above, looking truly pissed off, and holding a spare pistol! With her typical lightning speed she _—(KRAKK!)—_ puts a bullet in the bad guy's shoulder, then _—(KRAKK!)—_ another in his right leg!

The killer goes down alongside Pjeter Malota's body, and the gun bounces out of his grasp. Chuck kicks it away.

" _Nooo!"_ screams the newly helpless assassin, gawking in terror at the live and very powerful bomb just a few tens of meters away from him.

Chuck spends a precious second to gaze up at his wife with a mix of relief and gratitude and love—and then he seizes his cane and starts limping as fast as he can toward the propane tanker!

_(Music: "Fever," by The Black Keys)_

" _Chuck!"_ cries Sarah—who knows exactly what he intends to do. She gets to her feet and hurriedly searches the dim room—until she nearly trips over a long electrical cord running out to a floor lamp….

_77…76…75…._

As Chuck hobbles toward the propane tanker with maddening slowness, he hears— _(BWANG! BWANG!)_ —the bald Interpol agent already shooting the padlocks off the rear door of the trailer that holds the hostages. Then he notices another sound…kind of a frightened mewling… _from_ _Jeff and Lester!_

Chuck turns his head to see both of them peering fearfully out from opposite sides of the Mannheim steamroller—and that gives him a crazy desperate idea!

" _Hey you guys!"_ he calls out to them. " _I need you to start that thing up! Get it rolling in this direction! Do it! Hurry!"_

" _What? How?"_

" _Key's still in the ignition! I saw it! Figure it out! You're both smart!"_

 _60…59…58_ seconds….

Lester and Jeff goggle at each other, momentarily hesitant—and then they're clambering all over each other in their haste to get into the cab of the steamroller!

Chuck reaches the detonator as its timer passes 55 seconds. He runs his fingers over the whirring, LED-blinking matte-black plastic box: the size and shape of a quart milk carton, immovably attached to the exterior of the steel propane tank by a strong limpet magnet. He locates a concealed catch and gingerly removes the front cover, revealing a tangle of wires and electronic components garnishing a shaped charge of tan-grey putty-like C-4 explosive.

He _flashes_ on the device—but this only confirms what he already suspected.

"I'm gonna need two minutes to disarm this safely and I've only got 50 seconds!" Chuck cries out in frustration. Nevertheless he heroically sets to work.

_49…48…._

* * *

The bald Interpol agent flings the back doors of the trailer open and jumps inside. He finds the young hostages awake, whimpering, pleading, and praying in a dozen different languages. They're also chained together—all of them! The end of the chain is secured to something he can't quite discern at the other end of the trailer interior.

" _Damn,"_ growls the agent as he stumbles in the dark through a gauntlet of closely crowded legs and arms, losing valuable time….

* * *

Crouched in the driver's seat of the Mannheim steamroller, Lester finds the ignition key and turns it…but nothing happens!

" _It's not working, Jeff!"_ he shrieks girlishly, still gripping the key. _"It's not working!"_

But Jeff coolly cups his big hand over his partner's, and turns the key back halfway.

"It's a diesel, dummy! Give it a few seconds for the glow plugs to warm up…two Mississippi…three Mississippi…four…okay now…let's try it now!"

Together they twist the key home and _—(brrrr-RUM-UMM-UMM!)—_ the diesel engine starts with a basso roar! The steamroller immediately starts moving _—backwards!_

"No!" shouts Jeff. "Wrong way! Chuck wanted it to go _forward!_ Do something!"

 _33…32..31…30_ seconds _…._

* * *

(Back at the _Barockschloss,_ Sarah is rappelling down from the third-story window using the long electrical cord….)

* * *

Lester wildly grabs at the lever closest to him—which happens to be tilted backwards—and shoves it forward. Somewhere beneath his seat, gears go _GRRRAAAH!—glink-glink!_ and the Mannheim steamroller abruptly shifts into forward…rolling in Chuck's direction at a leisurely pace.

Jeff leans out of the cab window to alert Chuck—but Chuck has already heard the steamroller rumbling toward him.

" _Good work, Jeffster!"_ he yells, while staying fully focused on disengaging the wiring in the detonator. _"Now get outta there and RUN! Run for your lives!"_

Lester and Jeff gladly scramble down from the slowly moving machine and tear off, back to the safety of the spy van far down the street.

 _24…23…22…._ Chuck's been working far faster than he thought he could, but he's still barely halfway done. Fright-sweat begins to trickle into his eyes.

"No use! Not gonna make it this way!" He taps his earbud. "Interpol—what about the hostages?"

 _("Cutting 'em loose,"_ comes the bald agent's reply _. "Almost there.")_

"You better hurry," Chuck urges him. "I mean— _really_ hurry!"

 _("I'm counting on_ you _, man! You told me you were good!")_

 _17…16…15_ seconds to detonation….

The bumping rumble of the Mannheim steamroller is getting louder. It's about twenty meters away and slowly closing in.

Chuck clamps both of his hands around the entire detonator housing and tries to wiggle it free. He clenches his jaws and his arm muscles spasm in pain—but the device doesn't budge; the magnet is too powerful.

"Guess it's Plan C," says Chuck fatalistically, as he rises to his feet. "This thing better not be shock-sensitive."

He lifts his sturdy steel cane straight up over his head and _—(whang!)—_ slams the end down on the top of the detonator with all his might. It _still_ doesn't move!

He does it again _—(whung!)—_ and again, the detonator holds fast.

 _10…9_ seconds….

Bitter anger suddenly swamps Chuck's fear of death, and he blindly flails away—

" _Come on!" (WHANG!) "Damn you!" (WHONGG!) "MOVE!" (WHUNKK!—plopp!)_

 _He did it!_ The detonator lies at his feet—still live—with 5 seconds to go… _4…._

Chuck snatches it up and flings it with all his remaining strength in the direction of the approaching steamroller. The detonator bounces once and comes to rest about half a meter in front of the leading roller.

Dizzily, stupidly, Chuck stands there fully exposed, watching—but Sarah arrives in time to dive at her husband from the side and tackle him to the ground! They land together with Sarah on top—but in the last fraction of a second remaining, Chuck somehow manages to twist them both over and gets his body atop hers to shield her.

The detonator disappears beneath the enormous steel roller and— _(FWOOOOMMPP!)_

The front end of the Mannheim steamroller rears up just a little in the blast, then _thumps_ back to the pavement in the midst of a grey smoke cloud, and comes to a peaceful stop—apparently unaffected except for a spray of deep-black soot marks on the roller.

The propane tanker is intact; the trailer is undamaged… _all is clear!_

" _Hey,"_ murmurs Sarah, looking with freshly moist eyes up into Chuck's handsome, though now very scruffy, face.

" _Hey,"_ he responds—as dozens of heavily armed Interpol agents and German federal police come pounding into the scene with Senior Special Agent Dieter in the lead.

" _Wait!"_ Sarah cries as she rolls herself back on top of Chuck and lifts her head to look anxiously toward the trailer. "The hostages? Vama!"

She's just about to leap to her feet and run over there—but Chuck grabs her arm and gives it a gentle squeeze.

"They're safe," he assures her. "Let's let the Interpol guys get the glory this time."

(Over by the _Barockschloss_ , the long-haired agent stands guard over the prostrate, wounded, whining syndicate assassin…while at the fake construction site, the bald agent is shepherding all of the dazed but uninjured hostages out of the trailer—to the hearty applause of a crowd of police that has gathered around.)

Sarah smiles, nods in agreement, and drops back down onto her guy to kiss him rapaciously. At that moment Dieter jogs past, clucking his tongue in amusement at the prone passionate couple in their disheveled semi-formal attire.

" _Mädchen auf der Oberseite_ , ha!" (Subtitled: Girl on top, ha!)

**_Stay tuned for the Epilogue!_ **


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Although I'm a much bigger nerd than you thought I was, I do not own Chuck.

**EPILOGUE**

**Fifth day, midmorning, on the Rhine River waterfront in Mannheim, where the _Geliebten Lorelei_ has returned and docked**

It's a warm, sunny, breezy morning at the docks. Chuck and Sarah stand there together, along with their client—the Canadian gentleman—from La Plata Global Gaming. All three study the troubled cruise vessel floating silently in its berth. The decks are empty of passengers and crew, but they can see Captain Stübing on the bridge above them. He seems to know he's being watched, but studiously avoids returning eye contact. Instead, the Captain stares stoically out at the Rhine.

"Unlucky guy," Chuck says, his observation intended for the La Plata man. "You do know Stübing had nothing to do with the slave trafficking, right? He just put his trust in the wrong right-hand man."

"Maybe he was a bit on the clueless side about some things," Sarah adds, "but he knows that ship and that river and he's completely devoted to both."

"We know," replies the La Plata man. "And our plan is to retain Stübing as the master—once we've completed our purchase of the vessel."

" _Purchase?"_ Chuck blurts out in surprise.

"That is correct. Although your cybersecurity audit unexpectedly unearthed a criminal conspiracy, we also think you proved the viability of the floating-casino business model. As before, La Plata is most pleased with your firm's work."

"Glad to hear it," replies Chuck.

"Especially this job, in the face of…how do I put it?...a few unanticipated hazards?"

He glances down at Chuck's steel cane. By now, Chuck isn't leaning on it very much, as his wounded leg appears capable of supporting him again.

At their client's glib reference to the "hazards" the Bartowskis had recently faced, Sarah reflexively takes hold of her husband's hand and squeezes it. He squeezes hers in reply.

"But I trust you _are_ insured for that sort of mishap, _eh_ Mr. Carmichael?"

"We are," says Chuck equably, even as Sarah's lips purse with a trace of lingering anger.

"Luckily for you," she adds—intentionally unnerving the La Plata man with her practiced one-two: a winsome smile and a coldly scary tone of voice.

Before the startled man can decide how best to reply, everyone's attention is abruptly drawn back to the _Lorelei_ when Vama appears on the promenade deck, with her humble duffle bag in hand.

" _Frau Sarah! Herr Charles!"_

She drops the bag on the deck and bounds down the gangplank to fervently embrace both of the Bartowskis. Sarah greets her warmly.

" _Sastipe,_ Vama! _Sar si sogodi?"_ (Subtitled: Hello, Vama! How are things with you?)

" _Mishto, palikerav tut,"_ the Romani girl answers. (Subtitled: I'm fine, thank you!)

"You seem none the worse for wear," Chuck observes, giving her an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "Where's your cousin?"

"Zora?" Vama giggles and rolls her eyes. "Ohhh, my poor Zora! This life too exciting for _her,_ she say! Scared to stay! So she has returned to home."

"And what will _you_ do?" Sarah asks her.

" _I_ was not scared, Frau Sarah—and I wish to stay here!" She points toward the boat. "Ask them my old job back. But they don't know if they can."

"I can," says the La Plata man. "And I will make sure of it."

"This is the man who owns the _Lorelei_ now," Chuck adds. "Well…sort of."

" _Sastipe, Kako!"_ exclaims Vama, seizing the La Plata man's hand. (Subtitled: Hello, sir!) "And thank you much!"

"That's the least I can do," he replies. "Mr. and Ms. Carmichael told me you helped bring the smugglers to justice. We can always find a place for a smart and brave young person like yourself."

"So what exactly are your plans for this barge?" Chuck asks him.

"Corporate has decided to go all in," the La Plata man gushes, with eyes agleam. "We're going to reconfigure the _Geliebten Lorelei_ as a full-amenity experience, with new dining options, shopping, and an expanded casino. And live music playing on two separate stages!"

"Live music, huh? Got your house bands picked out yet?"

"No, but we'll be having auditions quite soon. And I'm in charge of that," the La Plata man adds proudly. "I got my start in the nightclub business."

"That's interesting," suggests Chuck as he strokes his chin. " _Very_ interesting."

"And the timing couldn't be better, could it?" muses Sarah, cryptically—as the La Plata man gawks at both Bartowskis in total bewilderment.

 

* * *

**Two hours later, in a small rehearsal studio on the Mannheim campus of the _Popakademie Baden-Württemberg_ —Germany's university for popular music and the music industry**

As the La Plata man listens thoughtfully (to a reprise of Nirvana's _"Come As You_ _Are"—_ why mess with success?) while studying every aspect of their appearance (in their Nerd Herd-like white shirts and black slacks) and movements, _Jeffster!_ are playing their hearts and lungs out on a compact stage cluttered with just about every musical instrument imaginable.

Sarah and Chuck sit in folding chairs set a little farther back from the stage. Chuck has his arm around Sarah's shoulder. Her head is bopping a little from side to side, in time to the music. They're both smiling—rather smugly, in fact—as if they've cooked up something more than this impromptu audition for their friends….

Herr Schinken—the self-styled "very important record executive" who brought Jeff and Lester from L.A. to Germany—stands to one side of the studio in a well-tailored blue suit, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other, and looking as if he'd much rather be somewhere else.

Morgan and Alex watch and listen from a far back corner of the studio.

Just as _Jeffster!_ starts in on the second verse, the La Plata man rises to his feet and holds up both of his hands, signaling the band to stop playing.

"That's enough!" he calls out. When the music stops, he turns to address Chuck, Sarah, and Schinken.

"Well…I _do_ like their sound and their energy," he notes. "But can they cover anything newer than that?"

" _Ja_ —of course," Schinken quickly responds.

"And I've written some original songs myself!" Lester calls out.

" _Game over if he asks to hear any of_ those," Chuck mutters in Sarah's ear.

"All right, fine then—we can get demos from you later. That still leaves us with just one problem." The La Plata man nods toward the stage and pauses—as if the problem were obvious to everyone.

"Excuse me?" demands Schinken.

"Forgive my bluntness, but…well, neither of them is very easy on the eyes…eh?"

"Why should zat matter?"

"This is going to be an edgy, round-the-clock party boat—and a big piece of our targeted demographic is single, successful, red-blooded Euro Millennials. We've got to have something prettier up on that stage for them to look at while they're dancing and drinking and gambling."

Lester and Jeff stand by quietly, wearing hangdog looks.

"Zat is _ridiculous!"_ Schinken roars. _"Cheffster_ is already very popular with men…and women!"

"Sorry," says the La Plata man with a shrug. "That part is simply non-negotiable. Perhaps you can find them an attractive backup singer…?"

"Or…I am thinking, perhaps, ve stay with our initial sponsor, Schmecktgut Wurst," suggests Schinken, as he folds his arms across his chest.

On the stage, Lester makes a nauseated face.

" _Hold on!"_ Chuck interrupts, joining the other men on their feet. "Before this goes any further! I think maybe we can fix this!"

Sarah turns around to face the closed door at the back of the studio and calls out, _"You can come in now, honey!"_

And in strolls Vama—perfectly pretty in a white top and maroon jacket over a knee-length black skirt with black leggings and maroon boots. She moves confidently into the room and heads straight for the stage.

"Hey," says the La Plata man. "Isn't that the server girl from the—"

" _Charles!"_ Lester cries, his disgust suddenly supplanted by delight. "You did it! You found us our prettier muse!"

"She's much more than a muse, Lester…as you're about to find out."

To manifest Chuck's observation, Vama winks at the La Plata man as she strides past him onto the stage. She picks an acoustic guitar up out of the random assemblage of instruments scattered around.

" _What!"_ howls Lester. "Are you saying she's gonna _jam_ with us? That's not poss—"

"Wait a second!" Jeff cuts him off. "I'm on the keyboards now, remember? I keep trying to tell you we _need_ a guitarist, man!"

He gives Vama a generous smile as she starts tuning the guitar.

"But she's so _young,"_ Lester counters. "She can't be very good!"

"You'd be surprised!" retorts Sarah.

"Do you want this gig—or would you prefer staying on the sausage run?" Chuck asks.

"Guys! This is _exactly_ how Sinatra got his start!" Morgan shouts encouragingly from the back of the room.

"All right—all right!" Lester throws his hands up in surrender. "This is gonna be a train wreck—mark my words—but suit yourselves! How much of a musical repertoire does this peasant girl even have?"

"A lot actually, sir," Vama replies, smiling earnestly. "I play and sing along with _Pop-Musik_ radio all the time. Try me one!"

"Oh, count on it, little sister!" Lester produces a sheet with a list of song titles on it and thrusts it under Vama's nose. She gives it a quick scan and almost immediately points to one of the titles.

"Huh!" Lester is surprised—and from the look on his face, even a bit impressed. He shares Vama's choice of song with Jeff, who nods and flashes a thumbs-up sign before setting his keytar down and sidling over behind an array of keyboards and synthesizers.

Vama strums her guitar once and steps up to the lone microphone stand at the front of the stage. Lester joins her. Chuck sits down again close to Sarah, and they lean forward in their seats excitedly. The La Plata man looks skeptical. Herr Schinken simply sighs in resignation.

"Let's do this!" proclaims Jeff as he begins to pound the keyboards, and Vama accompanies him on her guitar.

_(Music: Jeffster! feat. Vama—covering "Little Talks," by Of Monsters and Men)_

After the opening bars, Vama leans into the mike and begins to sing.

" _I don't like walkin' about this old and empty house.…"_

Right on beat, Lester leans forward and joins in:

" _So hold my hand, I'll walk with you my dear."_

Vama: _"The stairs creak as you sleep, it's keeping me awake…."_

Lester, now cracking a grin: _"It's the house telling you to close your eyes."_

Vama, grinning right back at him: _"And some days I can't even dress myself…."_

Lester: _"It's killing me to see you this way."_

And then, all three—Vama, Lester, _and_ Jeff—harmonize on the hook:

" _'Cause though the truth may vary, this…_

_ship will carry our…bodies safe to shore…."_

"… _Hey!...Hey!...Hey!"_

" _Are they doing all right?"_ Sarah shouts at Chuck over the music. _"It sure sounds like it to me!"_

" _Oh yeah!"_ he answers her. _"And get a load of_ that!" He points toward the side of the studio, where Herr Schinken had been standing alone when the band started playing. The La Plata man has already gone over to join him; both hard-headed businessmen now look equally astonished and delighted. They're carrying on an animated discussion that appears to be about terms and contracts…as Jeff, Lester, and Vama play on, beautifully synergistic.

" _One word—_ Jeffsterama!" quips Chuck as he shoulder-bumps his wife.

" _It does almost roll off the tongue,"_ Sarah acknowledges, bumping him back.

" _But babe—d'you really think it's a good idea for us to leave Vama in the company of_ those _two?"_

" _She can handle them,"_ Sarah confidently replies. _"And just to be certain, I'll give Jeff and Lester a friendly little 'hands-off' notice before we go. With a reminder that I can enforce it from anywhere in the world!"_

" _Then our work here is done,"_ Chuck declares happily.

 

* * *

**Meanwhile, at the secret laboratory on the Stanford University campus**

Juanita Saldana can't suppress a little giggle as she holds Manoosh Depark's first functional copy of the Key in the palm of one white-gloved hand.

"Yeah. Exquisite, isn't it?" asks Manoosh rhetorically—and proudly. He's still seated at his workbench; still virtually tethered to the lab. "I'd love to meet the engineer who originally designed it."

Juanita slowly shakes her head, showing a brief flicker of true melancholy.

"As would I, Manoosh, as would I—but that is no longer possible."

A pair of Intersect glasses sits at the end of the lab bench. Juanita picks them up and slides the Key onto the frame. It makes a satisfying _click_ as it snaps into place and activates with a glint of tiny yellow LEDs.

Manoosh rises from his chair in concern. "Be _careful_ please! I mean _—ma'am_ —I mean I don't think we're quite ready for that level of testing yet!"

" _¿No?"_ Juanita glances sideways toward a surveillance camera high on one wall of the lab, makes a skeptical face, then turns back toward Manoosh. "That is _not_ what you suggested only yesterday."

"I know," the young engineer replies with a sigh. "I know. I was on track. The circuits all tested out fine. The program's uploaded and good to go."

"Well then, what—"

"It's the _firmware_ —I dunno—I've got this funny feeling about it."

"Explain," demands Juanita, now sounding annoyed.

"I swear it's an absolute perfect match to the specs you gave me—I _swear_ it is, ma'am! But I can't shake this feeling something's missing. Deliberately—a tiny little chunk of code—as if whoever built that prototype intentionally left something out. I can't be sure it wouldn't affect a test in some way."

"And how _would_ we know if some…chunk…were missing?"

"By testing the device," Manoosh answers resignedly. "It's a catch-22."

"I see no harm in testing if we use placebo data. Has any information been downloaded onto the glasses?"

"Nothing yet."

Juanita hands the glasses back to Manoosh. "Load something simple and benign. Try a page from the Palo Alto online telephone directory."

"Okay…and then _—gulp!—_ I suppose you want _me_ to try it out?"

The CIA agent smiles at her asset. "No, Manoosh. Because of your misgivings I will find us a somewhat less essential test subject."

* * *

Five minutes later, the Key-equipped Intersect glasses are ready for the test. Alongside them on the lab bench is a miniature spray can of X-13 gas.

Juanita has brought in one of the Military Police who stand continuous watch outside the laboratory door. The MP is young and seems eager to please.

"Your task is simple, Corporal," Juanita instructs him as she hands him the glasses, while surreptitiously palming the can of X-13 gas in her other hand. "Put these on…and then, just tell us what you see."

"Yes ma'am!" The soldier slides the glasses up over his eyes.

"It's asking me: DO YOU WISH TO PROCEED?"

"Blink twice for yes."

"Now—IDENTITY CHECK—there's a zigzagging light. Scanning my retinas is it?"

" _Hold it!"_ cries Manoosh. _"That's_ not supposed to—"

"Now it's stopped scanning—it says DENIED. Is that what's supposed to happen?"

Just for an instant, the MP is oblivious to what Juanita and Manoosh can already see—the Key is beginning to give off smoke—and then a red glow appears around its edge!

" _OW!"_ yells the soldier as he whips the glasses off his head and reflexively hurls them to the floor. _"Hot—hot—hot!"_ Dancing in place, wincing in pain, he rubs the side of his head furiously…as Manoosh grabs a fire extinguisher to smother the now flaming Intersect glasses and Juanita drops her face into her hands….

* * *

Nearby, Professor Fleming and a guest have been watching the brief comedy of errors on a monitor. The man standing alongside the Professor's wheelchair is tall and solidly built, with a high, rounded forehead, thinning hair, a square chin, and hazel eyes. He puts a hand on Fleming's shoulder, as if commiserating.

Mortified, the Professor glances up at him.

"I'm very sorry you had to see that, Mr. Smith."

"That's quite all right, Professor," says Mr. Smith calmly. "I myself had to suffer several similar mishaps before I learned never to underestimate the Bartowskis."

"Still, with all that you and your associates have done for us—the funding, the access to new technology—you have a right to expect much better in return."

Mr. Smith nods to agree.

"We do, Professor. And you'll deliver—I have no doubt. You can be assured we're not nearly ready to give up on you and your team."

As Fleming mutters a nervous thanks, Mr. Smith ruminates for a moment before continuing.

"However—given this serious setback—I will have to insist that we re-evaluate your _…our…_ current arm's-length approach in dealing with Carmichael Industries. I think it's time for us to act more aggressively. _Considerably_ more aggressively."

At Fleming's abrupt expression of surprise and fear, Mr. Smith chuckles.

"Oh, don't look so alarmed, Professor. I'm not talking about violence. That's already been tried and it has never succeeded. No—I intend to do something far less messy and far more effective… _we are going to deploy the lawyers."_

 

* * *

**Later, aboard the La Plata Global Gaming corporate jet, streaking westward toward the USA and California**

_(Music: "We Are Fine," by Sharon Van Etten)_

On this luxurious aircraft the seats are as plush and roomy as those in any first-class commercial cabin, but they have a nice extra feature: the armrests and benches between adjoining seats can be retracted completely, and the seats coupled together.

This suits Chuck and Sarah perfectly. Together in the dim cabin, they've joined their seats and reclined them to near-horizontal. Chuck is relaxing on his back, holding Sarah in both arms as she rests her head on his chest. They've been dozing on and off, but at this moment they're both awake.

"Awfully posh to have this whole jet to ourselves," muses Sarah softly.

"Yeah," agrees Chuck. "That Canadian guy really took it to heart when you said La Plata owed us big time for all the nasty stuff that happened."

Sarah snickers. "And—with a VIP invite in hand to _any one_ of the fanciest restaurants in all of Germany—which one did _you_ pick for us? _El Compadre_ in Berlin!"

"Where better to talk seriously about our future, babe?"

"You're so silly… _and_ romantic, _and_ sweet." She kisses him on the nose. "You know, I really can't wait for us to get back home—to _our_ house. There's so much to do! You know that little rugrat's gonna be here before we're ready for her!"

"Or him," says Chuck equably.

Just then, his iPhone chimes—with an incoming call from Julio Johnson, their attorney. Chuck hesitates, looking dubiously at Sarah instead of answering the phone.

"Do we tell him now?" he asks.

"Might as well," she replies.

Chuck accepts the call. Johnson's perpetually tanned, friendly face appears on the screen of his iPhone.

 _("Well I'll bet you're glad to be getting out of Germany,"_ he begins. _"Are you sure you don't want me to file a suit against the shipping line for unwarranted pain_ _and_ _suffering?")_

"We're sure," says Chuck.

"But _—umm—_ Julio—when we get back to L. A.—we _do_ need to talk about something," adds Sarah cautiously.

 _("No problem,"_ the lawyer says cheerfully. _"About what?")_

"We're changing our business plan," continues Chuck. "We're going to spy-down our company."

_("Really? But you're so good at what you're doing now!")_

"We've _got_ to," Sarah insists. "I almost lost Chuck _—twice—_ on what should have been nothing more than a quick and routine cybersecurity job."

"You were right there with me on that live bomb, baby," Chuck cuts in. "We'd have _both_ been killed. All three of us, that is."

"See, that's _exactly_ the point, Julio! We have a _baby_ coming now! We have to consider what's best—"

Attorney Johnson holds up his hands in mock surrender.

_("Okay! Okay! I get it! It's fine—I can help you with your new plan, whatever—")_

"Well…actually, Julio…we're not sure we'll still be able to afford you…." mutters Chuck.

He and Sarah are surprised when Johnson laughs out loud and shakes his head.

 _("Before we concern ourselves with_ that _—before you do_ anything _else—you really do need to meet with me right away when you get back in town. 'Cause there's a reason I called you in the middle of the night like this.")_

"Uh-oh," says Sarah. " _That_ sounds ominous."

 _("Not in the way you think, Sarah. I'm calling because we've just found a nifty little crack in the wall the Feds built around the Volkoff funds._ Your _funds.")_

" _Whaaa?"_ the Bartowskis simultaneously exclaim.

 _("And if this goes the way I expect it will, the two of you—I mean the three of you,_ hah! _—are_ never _going to have to worry about money_ ever _again…!")_

_(Closing credits and "Chuck" titles theme, by Tim Jones)_


End file.
